


Look Alive

by SinSerenade



Series: The Alternates [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brynden "Lord Bloodraven" Rivers, Conqueror of Essos, Daenerys Targaryen Deserves Better, Daenerys Targaryen-centric, Diseases, Dragon Bonds, Dragon Riders, Eventual 7 Kingdoms, F/M, House Greyjoy, House Lannister, House Martell, House Stark, House Tyrell, Khaleesi of The Great Grass Sea, Magic, Murder, NO ENDGAME JONERYS, Other houses in the seven kingdoms, Possibility relationship tags will change, Queen of Meereen, Romantic and/or sexual relationships that are not Jonerys, Screw Season 8, Sexual Content, Three-Eyed Raven - Freeform, Time Travel Fix-It, Various Religions, War, is not a frivolous title, mother of dragons, too many to name - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:32:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinSerenade/pseuds/SinSerenade
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen sacrified too much for a land that didn't want her and she suffered for it. When that dagger pierced her heart, something in this universe sat up and took notice. Peoples lives are at stake, but this is a game and they will win.The board has been reset and the pieces begin to move forward again.Long live the Queen.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first time actually posting a fic and I really have no idea what my writing is like so feedback will be appreciated. Yeah, season 8 was...something else, huh?

**Fire and Blood**

* * *

 

She’s floating in a dreamlike state, encompassed by a black void of space. No colour, no feeling, no air.

She drifts through the void and never feels hunger gnawing in her belly, and she is never cold but she is also never warm. She feels nothing but a throbbing ache in her heart and vibrating strings in her head, strumming to a beat she can’t hear. Something reaches through the void to whisper in her ear, a hand grasping her chin pulling her closer, but she can’t react only laying still as words she does not understand are repeated louder and louder until finally, the sounds begin to make sense and she knows ( _she knows_ ) that they meant something to her once upon a time.

_Open your eyes, stormborn._

_Open your eyes and wake up, your children cry out for you. Can’t you hear them?_

Children? No that’s not right, she has no children. She has spent an eternity in this darkness and not once has a child emerged from her womb. Whatever this voice is, it is wrong and it is cruel to lie, to say she has something she has yearned eons for.

_I do not lie Daenerys Targaryen; I have always shown the truth, but you did not see what was before you._

Daenerys? Yes, that meant something to her, that was important.

_You failed me once but not this time._

This time? There has been nothing but this darkness, only the void.

_The board is reset, pick up your sword and wield the fire once more._

Her eyelids strain to open, she never knew they were shut. Colours filter in and the darkness shatters, she can see and her eyes see _so much_. The dead killing the living, castles falling and with them, kingdoms burned. A wall crumbling, the sky swallowed by a storm and rumbling roars fade into death rattles. A map fracturing, a falling crown splitting into seven, the pieces landing in blood and sinking below. A storm of ravens cawing above a throne before their feathers are set alight and they burn to ash. She saw hills crawling with corpses, saw grass soaked in blood until there was nothing green left but a scarlet ocean remained.

It was too much, and a plea rested on her lips. _Let it stop_ , she thought but she couldn’t speak. Why couldn’t she speak?

Her mouth opened but nothing other than heavy breathing sounded. Her sight filled with hands, thousands of hands, rotten to the bone, flesh hanging between the fingers and they all stretched towards her face. Looming closer until finally she screamed, a small raspy squeal growing louder and louder until it burned. The burning turned to fire on her tongue and she watched the hands burst apart, some bones being flung out of sight and others she watched disintegrate slowly, as if time itself had broken and she could count every individual piece that floated away.

The fire dimmed and faded into the air as she felt a draft shiver against her spine. She couldn’t move, couldn’t turn her head as something coiled itself around her. Three heads creeped into the edge of her vision, black, gold and green. She could spy curving horns and teeth long as she is tall, their eyes a familiar comfort she couldn’t understand. She wanted to touch them, bring them closer but her arms wouldn’t move. She could only watch as their mouths opened and something vibrated through her, down to her bones and her mind rejoiced, _yes! Yes!_

Flames poured out and blinded her vision, encased her in a molten heat and finally, at last, Daenerys Targaryen, remembered.

The Mother of Dragons woke up.


	2. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys struggles to find her bearings in a world so different from the last but it feels so right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ta-da! this is based in Season 5 Episode 1 of the show, so quite a bit away from the ending we all know and hate. Enjoy! (hopefully)

Daenerys’ eyes wrench open and her body lurches upwards with such force she topples off the wooden bed frame and onto the cold floor below. Her knees scrape against stone as she gasps, her arms shaking as she struggles to hold herself up. Her eyes search wildly around her, trying to make some sense of the situation.

She can feel tears pool across her eyelids as her mind is assaulted with half-formed visions ( _memories, bittersweet memories_ ) and she can feel the bile surge and pool at the back of her throat before she spies a chamber pot under the bed. Hands weakly reach for it and white knuckles the rim in her grasp as she vomits. She sits there, struggling to draw breath and her throat burns with every successful attempt. Slowly, stiff fingers retreat to her lap and pull stained fabric into a clenched fist.

 _A shift_ , her mind supplies. For sleeping and that is her bed, and this is her room and she knows that sunrise creeping through wooden shutters. Wobbly knees lock to support her as she rises, once then twice when she fails, and she takes steady steps forward as she still cries. This can not be. Her hands rest against the shutters, takes one deep breath and pulls them open. The creak of old wood makes her cringe, yet she persists, _she must see_.

 _Meereen_.

 _Home_.

Rays of light stretch across roof tops that extend far and wide. Pyramids cutting into view that stand tall and proud and she hears squawks of gulls flying overhead and away to the water stretching as far as her eye could see. Her hands come to rest against the barrier of the balcony. None of this beauty makes sense, she shouldn’t be here and when she glances up and above her heart skips a beat while a breath whispers through her lips. A golden harpy draped and hidden behind Targaryen colours. _This can’t be her Meereen, her city has no harpy._ But there it stands.

This is too much.

Her vision flutters for a second, fading at the edges before something in her mind pulls tight, once, twice and thrice and suddenly nothing else matters except the clouds above and beyond the balcony. Syllables barely roll of her tongue before a wail echoes and birds hidden out of sight, on jutting bricks of the pyramid’s slant, rise and flee to the south.

“Drogon…”, she breathes before black arching wings slice through clouds and a horned head comes into view.

“Drogon!” She calls again, louder, her hand stretched out reaching as if she could pluck him out of the air. Her son roars again in response, his wings straining harder against the air. The sunlight filters through the translucent membrane, it reminds her of stained glass the colour of blood. He is small, so small compared to when she last saw him. No, _younger_ she understands now. Dragons do not grow small when they are as powerful as her sweet son. This is a time she does not yet understand but with Drogon in sight, it’s a less harrowing thought.

The strings in her mind ( _tethers_ ) vibrate and memories run down, and she can feel them cling to her muscle, tastes emotions on her tongue, foreign but so _familiar_.

( ** _rage and hate. So much loathing burning through his veins. Boiling deep at the back of his throat and he wants to unleash it all!_** )

Her vicious son, how could she ever forget.

( ** _Mother, mother please…_** )

His speed never slows as he grows closer, determined to reach her and a thought slips through her mind and leaves as quickly as it came ( _afraid she’ll slip through his claws again like her life once did_ ).

At the last second his wings spread wide, catching his body mid-flight and the gust as he flaps his wings a second time so close sends her falling backwards. His foreclaws grasp at the balcony and his body dangles, feet grasping and loosing bricks and she hears them tumble down, down, down. His head lowers down to lean against her, his muzzle resting on her knees as he breathes in deep and exhales with a rumble that warms her to her toes. As her hands grasps at his scales and horns, she feels the other tethers in her mind being strummed again and faster. A demand for attention.

 _Viserion and Rhaegal_ , she realises with a start. Barely a second passes before she’s scrambling to her feet and follows Drogon’s neck to his back which hangs below the edge of the balcony. Although smaller now she remembers a time ( _so long ago now but closer than ever_ ) where he carried her even at this size. One foot steps up and another as she leans over to grasp the spines along his neck, holds tight and pulls herself over the edge. Her knees grasp tight below his shoulder and her shift catches and rips on spikes or scales she doesn’t know but not once does she fault. He would catch her if she fell, this she knows.

( ** _always, always. Never leaving again, it hurts mother. So much…_** )

She doesn’t speak, merely thinks of flying and he lets go and for one exciting moment they hold suspended against the air before they turn and plummet towards the ground. Drogon chirrups and his wings spread once more before they catch the air and slowly they drift down, towards the entrance of the catacombs. Daenerys feels herself tense when she sees Unsullied scramble away from his shadow but still when they catch sight of her on his back.

They all kneel except one who stands strong even when the ground shakes with Drogon’s landing. He lays his spear down but holds his shield against his leg and approaches, a hand outstretched to help her down. He comes to an abrupt halt a few feet away when Drogon turns and snarls, not liking his proximity. She is quick to soothe him, a hand against his neck and love down their spindling bond. He bows his shoulder, his wing stretching below her as steps to help her down and she can’t help the smile as she dismounts.

As her feet touch the ground, she turns to the Unsullied soldier and the ones rising to their feet behind him.

“Mhysa.” They say collectively and thoughts connect in her head as she realises although strange this dream or life may be, she is safe. She looks into the soldier’s eyes and inquires his name.

“White Rat, Your Grace.” He barks, as he removes his helmet. She can’t keep the smile from stretching further and she doesn’t want to. She lays her hand upon his arm and with a laugh asks,

“Will you open the catacombs for me, White Rat?” He nods, a smile of his own developing and gestures to the other Unsullied while placing his helmet back on but she can still see the crinkle of his eyes. They move in tandem to the stone circle door, and together shove it backwards and she can practically feel her bones rattle as the tethers in her mind shake and snap with flitting emotions too quick to grasp.

( ** _Mother, please…Are you there, mother?)_**  
( ** _Over here, hurry mother. Break the chains_**.)

The moment the gap is big enough, she squeezes through and rushes down the steps, she stumbles once when her ankle wobbles but regains her balance. Faintly in the background she hears the soldiers shouting before the light shining around her expands with a dull boom and she can feel fiery breath on her neck. Drogon, truly her son, impatient like her. She doesn’t slow until she reaches the bottom, her son's head hovering above her own and she calls out into the dark softly, “Rhaegal? Viserion?”

Chains rattle and scrape before they emerge on opposite sides, scuttling around pillars to arrive together in front of her and she sees flames lick through their teeth in excitement. Their feet scrambling to gain solid purchase against the ground, as if one good push will set them free. _Breaker of chains_ , her mind whispers and she sprints forward. Her fingers barely touch their scales and her mind fractures into memories, sending her to her knees.

( ** _snow, ice and pain. A scream tearing through their teeth as the fire resting in his mouth drained backwards down his throat and emerged from a gaping wound and his blood followed, sizzling against the cold air and then he crashes_** )

( ** _his wings strain against the air, each flap a struggle to keep pace with his brother. Look, look at me mother. I can still fly; I can still fight! Are you proud, do I make you happy?_**

**_Their tether alights with the heat of her love and joy, spreading down his neck with his spines quivering in the feeling, it slithers down into his chest and curls into a ball._ **

**_A whistle, the warmth bursts and its drowned in his agony. He struggles to stay aloft before his eyes roll back, a rattle expels from his mouth and soon he is falling, falling, falling…_** )

She whispers apologies as her sight returns to her sons before her, sniffing and forbidding the tears from falling again. She beckons them closer, their heads bowing down and one after the other she releases them from the weight of their collars. Never again, she promises. Her children crowd around her, their chirps a soothing euphony that echoes through the catacombs.

She hears her Unsullied call to her from the entrance and when she glances up, she is surprised to see White Rat standing halfway down the steps.

She grasps Drogon’s horns, barely moving before he is shoving her to her feet. She tugs gently in reprimand and feels him huff against her belly in response. Loudly with confidence she calls to White Rat, “Call for more Unsullied, tell them I want the harpy brought down by tomorrow morning.”

He nods once and he retreats up the steps. She watches him join the squad standing outside and one of them leaves quickly after he mutters to them while the rest move into a formation against the entrance, continuing their guard once more. She gathers her sons closer, standing in the middle of their coiled necks. Drogon remains burrowed against her belly while Viserion and Rhaegal take place at each shoulder.

“We begin again.” She whispers to them and feels their happiness and approval radiate to her and settle along her spine.

Yes, and this time they will not lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is before the harpy gets dragged down.  
> The dragons are the size they were in season 5 and yes, they all remember their stints in the previous life  
> sorry to those knowledgeable about certain unsullied soldier fates


	3. Sons of the Harpy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sons of the Harpy have lashed out and Daenerys is not happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still season 5 episode 1

The scratching of ink on parchment is a soothing sound, there's something Daenerys finds comforting in the repetitive motion of writing, of putting words to the thoughts flitting through her head and being able to make sense of them. The door to her solar rattles, as whoever outside knocks twice and waits. She barely glances up at it and the shadow looming under before returning to the papers on her desk and quietly calls out for her guest to enter.

An Unsullied soldier pushes the door open, closing it behind him and comes to a stop at the chair in front of her desk, hands folded behind his back. She puts her pen down and looks up, a smile gracing her lips.

“ _White Rat, how do your men fare?_ ” The valyrian pours out smoothly as Daenerys leans forward, one hand resting on the desk and the other gesturing to the chair. White Rat relaxes his stance and nods gratefully in return as he sits. His hands are dusted by dirt and there are grains of sand in the ridges of his armour.

“ _They are doing fine, Your Grace. We are having the harpy statue deconstructed as you wished._ ”

Humming in approval, she pulls out more papers from the top drawer of her desk. She sifts through numerous reports of finances and complaints before plucking two reports from the piles and putting the rest back into the drawer. The joy she felt when she watched the harpy being torn down from the roof of the pyramid all those weeks ago had stayed with her through her day and led to the idea of hiring contracts with the builders living in the city to dismantle the statue in hopes to create more jobs and help improve the economy. She had the Unsullied stand guard as they worked to ensure their work wouldn't be disturbed by Sons of the Harpy who would no doubt be enraged by their symbol being destroyed.

“ _Good, that's good. Have the parts given back to the people, they can use them as they like, be it for building or just to watch it burn. As long, though, if it does not endanger others._ ”  She looks pointedly at him, her eyebrow arching up and he nods at the hidden order, an ‘ _of course_ ’ muttered quietly.  She glances down at her papers once more, two reports informing her the situation of Astapor and its new ruler, Cleon the Great, the Butcher King who overthrew the council she put in place before she left and Yunkai, to whom she recently sent Daario Naharis and Hizdahr zo Loraq to negotiate with the Wise Masters that had claimed the city in her absence and enslaved every freed man inhabiting the streets.

The more she read, the more frustrated she became and she had to put them down in favour of the parchment she was already writing when White Rat entered. She looked over it once more, inspecting it for any directions that may be confusing before she held it up to him, switching to the common tongue, “Here, I have something for you and Commander Grey Worm. Read it carefully.”

He takes it slowly, glancing at her face unsure before pulling the paper closer to him and reading over the instructions she wrote. Daenerys sees the muscles in his face twitch slightly, a subtle sign of his surprise. Her Unsullied were hard to read at the best of times, trained so hard through their life to feel nothing and only obey. She suspected if she didn’t have memories of a past life lying dormant in her mind, then she would be like the rest of the Essos population, grasping awkwardly for emotions on a blank face. Seeing that White Rat has no response, she clears her throat and sits up straight.

“I understand it's different, but let's say that I’ve been... _inspired_ , by my Westerosi counterparts. I don’t want the Sons of the Harpy to think they can hide, that the freed people of this city will _let_ them hide. I’m trusting that you can lay the foundation of this network, of people loyal to me and to the progress of eradicating slavery. It can be anyone from merchants to sailors, to the children in orphanages or to the women in brothels. If they see any sign or movement from the harpies, I want them to report back to me or the Unsullied. Of course, we would have to place guard rotations around the orphanages and brothels, they are the most vunerable people in this situation. Do you have any questions?”

She sees the understanding dawn in his eyes and White Rat nods, “What of the Second Sons?”

Leaning back against the chair, she sighs and fiddles with the pen on the desk, a cool mask of detachment blanketing her face, “While I trust the Seconds Sons and their commander to help me fight, I do remember that they are sellswords and while Daario likes to remind me of his loyalty every time he sees me, his men on the other hand may be swayed by gold. I can't have them not report back to me or inform me lies to divert my attention elsewhere while the harpies make their moves. No, it will be to me directly or through the Unsullied to me. If, however, I am not available then inform your men that Missandei will receive your message. She is of the few people I trust explicitly. This is of the utmost discretion, I don't want people speaking of this publicly. We can't give our enemies any more advantages than they already have.”

“Yes, _Mhysa_.” A small smile breaks through the mask, and as she opens her mouth to speak the door is opened and Missandei rushes in, sweat dotting her forehead.  She hesitates at the sight of White Rat and halts in the doorway, her hand still gripping the handle. Concern pulls in her chest as she sees the expression on Missandei's face. Standing up she quickly rounds the desk to grasp at Missandei’s hands. White Rat follows her action, glancing at them both before he goes to stand at the door and peek into the hallway, checking for danger.

“What is it?” she whispers urgently, checking over her arms and face for any signs of wounds.

“What’s wrong Missandei?”

Missandei sighs, looking down into her eyes as a frown pulls at her lips, “It’s the harpies, Your Grace. They’ve attacked the Unsullied.”

 

* * *

 

Daenerys stands in front of the table placed in the council room, a harpy mask in her grasp. Rage slowly boils in her gut, her muscles pulling and cramping, and the mask creaks under her fingers as they curl tighter around its edge. Missandei stands at her right side, looking over her shoulder to frown at the sight of the mask and Daenerys looks back at her as a look of worry and disgust passes between them. She looks to Grey Worm who stands on the opposite side of the table, where Mossador and White Rat also stand, watching and waiting for her to take a course of action.

"What was his name?" It's Grey Worm who replies, glaring at the mask before settling his eyes on hers.

"Red Mutt. They slit his throat. We have retrieved his body."

Ser Barristan taps his fingers against the table, pushing his chair back and rising up to stand in front of her, his eyebrows are furrowed and the wrinkles across his forehead deepen.

“When?” She grits out through her teeth, glaring up at Ser Barristan. He sighs rubbing his hand against his beard and up past his ear to the back of his neck, his head bowed and avoiding her gaze.

“This morning, Your Grace. We found the mask placed on the body.”

“Where?”

“In one of the brothels.” She places the mask down onto the table, her palms white from the pressure of squeezing it. Her eyes close for a brief moment, inhaling a breath to let her anger cool before sighing, standing up straight and clasping her hands in front of her body.

“They’ve never killed before, only ever inciting riots.”

Ser Barristan pulls the mask closer to him, fingers tapping against the horns thoughtfully. He nods in response to her statement and looks to her face with wariness lining his features,

“It was only a matter of time. Conquerors are always met with resistance.”

She looks at him with exasperation, “I didn’t conquer them, I gave their people the means to rise up and they did. It was their own people who conquered them.”

“ _They do not see us as people, Your Grace._ ” It was Mossador who spoke up, spitting out the words quickly in valyrian, venom underlying them and a curl pulling at his lip. Daenerys nodded in agreement, responding back in valyrian,

“ _Do not fret, Mossador. The masters_ _will_ _l_ _earn that they no longer have power in this city. If they seek to harm my people once again, I will teach them to fear my wrath._ ” She will do things better this time round, now that she is no longer afraid. She directs her command towards White Rat, holding his gaze and her voice flat.

"Bury his body in the Temple of the Graces with all the honours. Ask if any of his brethren would join to oversee it." Mossador's head snaps up, eyes widening with incredulity and his eyes flit between her and White Rat as he leaves to follow out her command. He stammers his next words, tongue catching between his teeth as takes a breath before trying again, this time in common tongue.

"That will make the masters angry." Ser Barristan nods in agreement, his head tilting as he considers the implications of her decision.

"The masters will hear that message." She hums, fingers reaching to toy with the harpy mask once more.

"Good, I intend them to-" she glanced once at Mossador before turning the mask over to analyse the decor inside of it, "- _a_ _ngry snakes lash out, makes it easier to chop their heads off."_

Once she was arrogant but now she knows better. She knows that the masters are dangerous but they forget she can be worse than them. She has titles identifying her more sympathetic nature, like Mhysa and Breaker of Chains but people seem to forget the words of her house, Fire and Blood. She can be compassionate to those she holds dear but her wrath is unparalleled when they're threatened. Mother of Dragons to her friends and Mother of Monsters to her enemies.

The hairs on her arms raise up, chills racing across her scalp and she stills, head turning to stare blankly at the ceiling. Ser Barristan's eyes squint, confused at what has caught her attention as he glances up just as twin booms sound off in succession against the roof. The candelabra shakes, flames flickering as thuds echo down closer to the balcony. Her council flinch and exclaim questions, looking up in alarm and swinging their heads back around to her, watching and waiting for her reaction. She merely smiles and gestures them to walk with her as she heads to the doors separating the room from the balcony. The only ones not to hesitate are Missandei and Grey Worm, she assumes they already know what exactly lies upon the roof.

She’s barely put one foot past the door, and her ears are filled with the purring of her sons. Their claws scrape against the stone as they lower themselves closer to the edge of the roof, chirping once in greeting. Daenerys raises her hands upwards and smiles at Drogon and Rhaegal as they rush forward at the same time, their heads knocking and horns clacking against one another as they both race to be the first to reach her touch. The tethers in her mind are buzzing and she can feel her heart swell with affection until her chest begins to ache. She feels the third tether in her mind being plucked, frustration and jealousy zip along the vibrations from Viserion, upset that he’s not receiving attention even though he’s miles out into the sea hunting for prey. When she blinks, for a second she is surrounded by blue below and above, a golden reflection skimming the water. She can taste salt in her mouth and bones stuck between her teeth and in the next second her vision is filled with green and bronze scales, a similarly bronze slitted eye staring at her impatiently. Rhaegal's face is quickly butted out of the way and now she stares at black and red scales, Drogon's teeth close to scraping across her skin as he and Rhaegal fight for her attention ( _ **look, look at our wings. see our horns and our tails. do you approve?**_ ).

She pursed her lips, swallowing the laughter and nods her head in a gesture barely there but they feel her pride race along the webs connecting them all.

In the few weeks since they have all awoken back in Meereen, her sons had hunted relentlessly across the bay and the grass plains of Essos. Before she called off the search for the people still out and looking for Drogon, she had received numerous reports from sailors watching her dragons drag whales from the sea and merchants sendings illustrations of them hunting herds of horses, she'd lost count of them eventually. Hundreds of scrolls had been delivered to her over a course of a few weeks and she had spent numerous hours sifting through them, most fake and others she knew were real from the detailed descriptions of their scales and size. Now they have grown faster than they did before, already reaching the size Drogon has been when he followed her on her journey from Vaes Dothrak to Meereen. Predictably Drogon is still bigger, she has been toying with theories but the one she believes to be most likely is the fact that he had hatched from a bigger egg then the others, that perhaps he had a better advantage compared to his siblings when it comes to size.

Rhaegal huffs, pressing his snout hard against her hand, irritated as Drogon raises his head high in arrogance to her thoughts and preens, spreading his wings and when they catch the light they cast a red hue over the balcony. She runs her nails along Rhaegal's scales scratching under his eye as she prods her mind against his, when he makes eye contact she raises her eyebrows in suggestion. She giggles as his thoughts flood with amusement and his head turns quickly to snap at his brother's frills, spreading his wings to take off before he could retaliate. Her council who linger in the doorway call out in alarm as Drogon snarls and roars a challenge. Quickly crouching and legs pushing against the roof, he takes off after Rhaegal, the gust from his wings tangling her hair and her dress whipping around her legs.

She follows their path, coming to lean her elbows against the balcony, head cradled in her hand and she watches fondly as they turn and dive around each other. She remembers the last time that her dragons were seen by the people behind her, they were wild and aggressive and barely listened to her commands. Now they were bigger and all the same to her council even if she knew different.

“Don’t worry,” she reassured them, speaking over her shoulder, “they won’t harm anyone.”

Ser Barristan’s mouth was hanging open, his face contorted in shock before he gulped and slowly came onto the balcony, the rest soon following. He glanced to the sky, watching as her sons collided and spun in the air, roaring and talons locked. “Are you sure?”

She smiled at him gently, turning to rest a hand on his shoulder, “Like all children, they needed time to grow. They listen to their mother now, no one will be harmed unless I say otherwise.”

She watched as his shoulders relaxed bit by bit until he stood in awe watching her children chase each other through the sky. Mossador came to stand by his side, a similar expression on his face. It was his first time seeing the dragons, he knew they were real but he never knew what they looked like.

Missandei and Grey Worm stood side by side, lingering near the door with smiles on their faces. They were the only ones currently here in Meereen who had seen the dragons when they were no bigger than dogs, had seen her bundle them into her bed and sing them to sleep as if they were only babes. They knew the relationship was more complex than what others could see, that Daenerys truly was their mother in all but blood.

Standing among them, she spoke softly but with confidence, “The Sons of the Harpy will remember who they are dealing with. A dragon cannot be cowed into submission. I have tried to do this peacefully, but now they will be met with fire and blood.” 

Ser Barristan was the only one who looked away from the dragons and was heedful of her statement, he seemed torn for a second before nodding. Daenerys already knew what he was thinking, that she was walking a line easily blurred. That if she used her dragons then she may become cruel. However, even without dragons she had always been ruthless. In her time spent in Qarth, she learned the dangers of greedy men and in retaliation had locked Xaro Xhoan Daxos into his own empty vault with Doreah when they seeked to betray her.

She stepped back into the pyramid, gesturing for Missandei and Grey Worm to follow and leaving the others to gawk as her dragons danced in the sky. As they travel through the corridors, her good mood slowly dissolves and she mutters quietly to them both, "We can rest later tonight but for now I need you both to help me."

Missandei steps in closer, her arm entwining with her own, "Always."

Grey Worm nods in agreement, but she pulls him closer anyway as Missandei did. He startles at the familiarity of her actions and she remembers of how close they had become before, when they were grieving Missandei's death and how they screamed with rage into the oceans surrounding Dragonstone when night fell. How they held each other when one broke, unable to function, only able to sit together in front of the fireplace and speaking of fond memories. Perhaps now they can become close friends again, sparked by joyful moments instead of agony.

"You are both the only people in my company who I trust above all others. Not only are you my people, you are also my friends. What I ask of you must remain between us." She turned her head between them, her eyes watching their expressions tighten and become sombre as they realised the serious tone of her voice and the implication of her words.

She turns to Missandei first, lulling for a moment as she considers her words carefully, "The Wise Masters will not bow, I know this, _we_ know this. Slavery is spread throughout this entire continent, even the so called _free cities_ were built upon the backs of slaves. For all they like to boast, they still gained profits from places like Yunkai and Astapor and turned a blind eye. They have become rich and I don't doubt they will retaliate and fund the masters if it means they continue to gain revenue from the slave trade."

She pauses, allowing them both time to understand the information she has given them. Seeing their slow nods, she turns to Grey Worm. 

"We're going to root every member of the harpy out of this city before moving onto Yunkai. Astapor can wait till the end, it's currently being held by a freed man called Cleon. From what I know, they have begun the slaughter of previous masters that still live there. Blood runs in their streets and they have turned the master's children into the new Unsullied." Grey Worm's expression shutters at that, no doubt remembering his own induction and training into the Unsullied.

"It's not a situation that's going to be solved easily. It's too delicate and will require extensive planning, for now I'm ignoring the messages and requests they have sent."

They come to a stop outside her room, removing her arm from around Grey Worm's she steps back to face him, Missandei still by her side.

"I have already made plans for Meereen, a network of spies from people loyal to our cause. I've spoken with White Rat and he has the detailed instructions I have written. Go to him, he will explain more and I want you both to come up with ideas you think will help expand this plan." He nods, a quick glance to Missandei before he left down the hallway and disappearing around the corner.

She leads Missandei into the room with her, closing the door behind them and together they take a seat on one of the lounges piled upon with pillows of various colours. Her head lolls back as she rolls her shoulders and heaves a heavy breath through her nose.

"Daenerys?" She flits her eyes to her friend, who's watching her with concern.

"Dany," she whispers. "Call me Dany."

Missandei smiles, relaxing further into the pillows, "Alright, Dany. I don't mean to offend, Your Grace, but...do you think we can achieve this? The masters are persistent, if the other cities of Essos backs them then we may not progress further than the Bay."

Daenerys takes her hands in her own, squeezing them. "You are my best friend and advisor, you are free to question my decisions and plans if you see fit."

Taking her question into further thought, she remains quiet for a few seconds before speaking up, her words slow, "I have the same fears, but I have something they do not."

Missandei smiles, already latching onto her train of thought, "The dragons."

She nods in agreement, words spewing from her mouth as they always do when it comes to the subject of her children, "They've grown faster than anyone expects, that I'm sure of. Arrows or _spears_ won't do much,-" her lips curl in disgust at the memory and she can feel Drogon's own disgust rise in tandem as memories bounce between them, Viserion's own rage reverberates over them both as his death lingers around the edges of the tethers, "-I'll need you and Grey Worm to ensure my plans stay in motion so I can train with them. As big as they are now, I want them to be ready for anything."

Missandei nods, humming in agreement and opens her mouth to continue but she glances away in thought only to murmur quietly, "What could kill a dragon?"

Her vision of Missandei is obscured as ash begins to descend from the ceiling and the sunlight fades away to be replaced with a scene of death and destruction. A man stands in front of her, his hands caressing her gently as false promises roll from his tongue.

_You are my Queen, now...and always._

Pain blossoms from her chest and tears spring to her eyes. Disbelief spinning her mind in circles, as someone she thought she could still trust in this land of backstabbers, someone she thought loved her as much as she loved him, took a dagger and drove it through her heart. Her hands slipping from their hold on his arms and she tilted backwards, supported by the frame of his arm wrapped around her waist as she lost balance on her legs. 

_Why? Why did it have to be you?_

"Dany?" Hands shook at her shoulders, nails gripping her skin through the fabric of her dress.

"Dany, look at me!" She gasped silently, her hands reaching up to grasp Missandei's wrists. A choked sob managed to worm its way out her throat as her truest friend's face appeared in her view, blurry through her tears but she recognised her all the same. Missandei wrapped her arms around her, drawing Daenerys in until her head found a place on her shoulder. She rubbed her palms against her back and whispered into her ear, "Are you alright?" 

Daenerys burrowed her head further into her shoulder, taking the time to subdue her tears. Her breath rattled with every exhale and she could feel Missandei's arms tighten around her when a screeching wail sounded from the windows, Drogon's emotions overtaking her own.

( _ **my fault, mother. it was my fault. I let him pass.**_ ) Her son's own anger and guilt reflected strongly in his wailing in the skies above the pyramid. She took grip of the tethers directly between only them two and held it tight as she denied his guilt, burning the emotion away with the absolution of her love. It was never his fault, only hers alone. She was the one who had committed atrocities in her grief and was naive to assume the person she loved wouldn't be affected by them. She had done terrible things before her death.

"Dany?"

She breathed in deep, withdrawing from Missandei's embrace but still held onto her hands, "Many things, my friend. Many things can kill a dragon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so dragons are getting bigger. Think drogon's size when daenery's burnt the masters ships when they came to attack meereen in end of season 6.  
> decided that white rat would not die like he did in season 5, felt better using an actual named character than just making one up.  
> don't worry there will be more missandei and dany time


	4. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys is spreading her wings, finally bringing a start to her plans. It will not be quick and it will not be easy, but at least she's got the ball rolling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no Aesir, this fic is not dead like dany

                                         

She’s sitting in the throne room, dusted light shining between the pillars and casting a soft golden hue over her skin that leaves her feeling warm. A pillow is laid upon the throne to cushion the foot she has wedged underneath her bum, soft as silk and a pretty blue that matches the colour of her dress. Her other leg swings freely, toes skimming against the flat shoes she nudged off before she sat and the material of her dress is bunched under her thigh, the hem resting against her knee. Missandei sits by her side, head bowing backwards as Daenerys pulls at her curls, fingers slick with oil and slowly braiding a headband of hair across her scalp. It’s a look Missandei was fond of and only took minutes of needling before she relented, kicking her own shoes off in solidarity and joining her on the throne.

Grey Worm sits below them on the steps, his fingers fidgeting with the handle of his short sword and periodically glancing to the doors of the throne room. He was surprisingly easy to convince, gentle words from Missandei coaxed him to relax before Daenerys peered over her shoulder and sent him a look, eyebrows raised and her fingers barely pausing in her work. He had huffed and made dramatic faces, throwing his hands up in defeat while he took a seat, mockingly muttering to himself, “What protection does Mother of Dragons need from a soldier?”.

Daenerys had flicked her fingers at his face, the residue oil from her digits spattering on the back of his neck before pointing a finger at him, “You know I value you more than just your use as a soldier, _jorrāelagon raqiros_.”

Grey Worm had merely lifted his lips in a shy smile, dimples on his cheeks that Missandei had confessed to adore during their hushed conversations that took place every morning in the balcony gardens. It took time of course to break through his composure, but in the days that had passed in each other’s company, peering over the list of people recruited into her emerging spy network, she had eventually gotten there. Long hours spent by each other’s side and fingers stained by ink, small jokes had been spoken between them until Daenerys had gathered the courage to tease him over his affection for Missandei. The look of shock on his face was worth the risk and the stuttering barb he had returned about Daario trailing after her like a lost lamb had left her reeling with laughter, fingers grasping at his sleeve to prevent herself from falling over and their shoulders knocking against one another.

She was finishing the end of the braid, loose baby hairs caught underneath her nails when a single knock echoed from the doors. Reluctantly, she let Missandei slip from her grasp, both slipping their shoes back on and she hid the pillow underneath the frills of her skirt, letting the hem fall to the floor and spread across her throne bench. She wiped her fingers against the fabric, the oil leaving dark streaks before she folded her hands across her lap. If it was any of her freed people, she would let them see their queen as she is. Comfort over the regality any day but today Daario Naharis and Hizdahr zo Loraq had returned from Yunkai and she refused to let the Nobleman have any insight to who she really is. It was hard to stay long in his presence, his comments were often grating on her ears.

Grey Worm pulled the doors open and the first to enter was Ser Barristan, escorting the men and a dozen of Unsullied with him that spread out and took position around the room. He stopped briefly in front of her, a quick ‘Your Grace’ and a bow before he took position behind the throne on her right with Grey Worm taking his place below the dais. Daario and Hizdahr who were trailing slightly behind Ser Barristan, halted below the dais when Grey Worm held out his hand and allowed them no further.

She waited to let the noise in the room to settle, passing the moments to glance briefly over Daario but found herself surprised, feeling a warmth curl in her chest as he met her gaze, eyes intense and looking nowhere else, his clothes were dusty and he held himself confidently under her stare. In the end, she manages to reluctantly drag her sight towards Hizdahr, taking in his bright clothes with the hems discoloured by dirt, who looks impatient and leaning weight on one foot before switching to the other,  “What news do you bring to me, Hizdahr zo Loraq?”

Hizdahr shuffles forward, the soles of his shoes scraping against the floor and he glanced nervously to Grey Worm who stands strong and silent, unmoving with a subtle glare on his face that prevents him from walking anymore. He clears his throat, a loud cough that makes him wince when it's the only noise in the room and in return, he gently buries his fingers in his robes; the material becoming strangled between his fingers while his eyes struggle to meet her own, “Fortunate news, Your Grace.”

He squeezes his hands into fists once and stands straight, a hand sweeping towards Daario, “Our mission in Yunkai was a resounding success. The Wise Masters of Yunkai have agreed to cede power to a council of elders made up of both the freedmen and the former slaveholders as you requested. All matters of consequence will be brought to you for review.”

She nods once, looking to Missandei and she barely gets to speak before Hizdahr boldly raises a hand in interruption. Her head freezes in place but her eyes dragged to settle on his face, her face impassive but a fire was beginning to burn in her eyes as she watched him speak, “They did ask for some concessions.”

She turns slowly, silently and waits until he begins to fidget, the shuffle of his feet once more against the stone seems to resonate throughout the room. Her voice is soft, but there is no way to hide the steel underlying her tone nor the glare in her eyes, “Concessions?”

His skin begins to look sweaty, his eyes flitting between her stare and the floor and he can’t stop his fingers from pulling down the fabric of his sleeve, nails catching and tugging on loose threads as a faint roar rolls in the distance. Her children have been flying over the city since sunrise, gambolling through the sky from pyramid to pyramid, chasing the seagulls despite their frantic squawking and dive-bombing. No doubt when he arrived through the city gates he was surprised to see them loose and larger than ever considering they were chained when he left. He chews at his lips, and gently speaks,

“Politics is the art of compromise, Your Grace.”

With what she says next, she wants to spit out every word faster than the other until she shouts at him, the same internal reaction she has to every man who speaks down to her but even with all the anger sitting, waiting to be unleashed, she instead continues on in the same soft tone that frightens him further. He would have preferred her shouting, anger was easy to identify and work around but that deceivingly patient look on her face made his chest squeeze tight in panic, “I am a Queen. Politics come with this position. Do you presume I never knew of this?”

“Of course not. Forgive me, it’s...it’s just easier to rule happy subjects than angry ones.”

Hizdahr’s eyes skim over hers towards Ser Barristan and she gets the feeling he’s looking for reassurance from the knight, as if he expects Ser Barristan will temper her and it does nothing more than make her teeth grind and clear her throat, “I don’t expect the Wise Masters to be happy. I ended slavery. Slavery is what made them rich and if-”

“They do not ask for the return of slavery, they ask for-”

“-the fighting pits?”

She can see the frustration on his face, finds amusement in the way his jaw clenches at her own interruption before his muscles loosen, her words sinking in as he finally processes them. Of course the Wise Masters wouldn’t be so bold to demand the return of slavery, not to her face at least. They would claw their way up behind her back, bit by bit, reinstating the small intricacies of the practice first until they were looming over her and able to wrap their hands around her throat.

“I’ve already gave extensive thought to this idea. While I do see benefits from continuing this practice, there are many things that give me pause. This is not a decision to be made lightly, and certainly not at the subtle behest of former slavers.”

There would be no easy way to deal with the fighting pits. If she did reopen them then her people may think the former masters have wormed their way into her trust and that maybe their Mhysa might turn a blind eye for an inhumane greed of profit; and if she didn’t reopen them? There was the possibility the activity from the Sons of the Harpy may continue to increase and the death of her soldiers and citizens was not something she was willing to gamble with. There was also that chance that even if she allowed the fighting pits to open, her people will still be killed and there was no guarantee all the warriors volunteering for honour are actually there of their own free will.

There is no more to be said about this, not now at least when there is no clear option to proceed forward. She glances to Daario, who still stands attentive but now with his blade dancing on his fingers. His fingertips glide across the handle, ghosting curves of the golden woman and there’s something about that very action that makes her want to shiver. But not now. There is much to be done and a pretty face won’t be enough to distract her, if anything all it does is leave a bitter taste in her mouth. Would this lover come to despise her too?

With a slow dip of her chin, Daario smiles and lays a hand upon Hizdahr’s bicep, encouraging him to turn and escorts him from the room. He glances back, lingering only for a second before he disappears around the doors.

* * *

It’s days later that the entire council sit around a table, in a meeting that had barely started before quickly derailing. To her right is Missandei and to her left is Mossador. She had only arrived minutes ago with Grey Worm escorting her. Their morning had been spent with White Rat, an impromptu gathering to discuss the companies of fighters that had been formed by freedmen loyal to their queen in the wake of more Unsullied deaths by the harpies. Currently the one she found herself most interested in was the Mother’s Men, their name leaving her feeling most fond by their devotion. It was an even greater joy to discover their elected commander was Marselen, Missandei’s brother who she only ever spoke quietly about in private, always afraid that if someone knew then she’d lose him too.

Her morning had seemed to be on the rise to a great day, with Grey Worm confirming that they had a number of spies stationed across the city, already reaching past 200 and White Rat had informed her that he had volunteers who travelled to Astapor and Yunkai. They had snuck in through sewer systems during the night and assimilated themselves into the community, posing as merchants and workers, willing to stay despite the danger and keep their queen updated with daily reports. The only request she had of them was to spread the message that if anyone in the other cities wished to take refuge, then the gates of Meereen were open to all in need of a safe home.

But now it seems all that joy was going to dwindle into nothing, the longer she sits here and listens to Hizdahr and Mossador quarrelling back and forth, with Ser Barristan himself seemingly annoyed at Daario, starting a small argument which is growing increasingly loud with every word. Her eyes flick from the scratched table top to Missandei, who sighs and flattens her lips into a line, frustration visible in every movement. Placing her elbows on the table, the thin cloak sewed onto her dress falls back from her shoulders and she clears her throat, _loudly_.

“If you’re all done squabbling, I’d quite like to continue with this meeting.”

The sheepish expression on all their faces is almost worth the headache. _Almost_.

“Wonderful, Daario, if you would begin?”

She leans into her hands, knuckles pressed against her lips and watches the smirk rise on his face. She listens carefully as he reports the patrols of the Second Sons, how they have begun to root out supporters of the harpies from the west side of the city and as a consequence caught multiple harpies trying to flee from the docks on stolen ships now that they had no one to house them. The people successfully arrested had been placed in the cells underneath the pyramid and were guarded by a small faction of Unsullied.

She nods, pleased with his progress and takes a second to roll the words around her mind. Ideas slowly start to unfurl in her mind but she ignores them for now, in favour of hearing the next report.

“Grey Worm?”

His reports hold the same situation in the east side of the city except when they had run down Sons of the Harpy trying to escape in a daring attempt through the city gates in broad daylight, they had encountered a ragged group of refugees from Astapor, who had helped the capture in a desperate attempt to gain an audience with the Queen. When they were brought to the scout towers at the gates and given food and water, a man had stepped forward and identified himself as an envoy from Astapor who brought unfortunate news of its political climate. He had stumbled into the group when his horse had been stolen during the journey and they had been kind enough to welcome him. When questioned, he told more than the instructed message he was to deliver and even started to spill secrets about their courts when it was suggested he wouldn't have to return and could instead make a home here in Meereen.

Apparently King Cleon the Butcher finds ruling hard and is growing disliked among his people. The envoy also stated that the king would like to make a pact between Meereen and Astapor to conquer Yunkai by wedding her, he would even set aside his current _wives_ in a bid to impress her. Charming, truly.

She doesn’t even try to hide her disdain when she turns to Missandei, who seems perplexed by the received proposal, “Remind me later to send the butcher my declination to his offer.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Now,” she sits tall in the backless chair, “what shall we do with those in the cells?”

It is Mossador who speaks first, leaning forward against the table with a hand pressed tight against his neck, fingers tapping the skin with emphasis and she can see the flush rising on his cheeks, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as an anger begins to brew within him.

“Please, Your Grace, you must kill them. These men want to put a collar back on my neck. On all our necks.”

“It would send a message.”

She’s hardly surprised by the suggestion, expected it really and in agreement but she doesn’t want to slaughter them in their cells. She wants something for all of Meereen to witness, to understand that she will put herself between her people and those that seek to harm them.

“I think you should exercise restraint, Your Grace.”

It is Ser Barristan who cautions her, his hands held up and palms facing her but he doesn’t look into her eyes. He chooses instead to keep his gaze on the table top and she gets the impression he doesn’t want to offend her, especially in front of the other members of the council. She gestures for him to continue, meeting his eyes when he finally looks up. She wants to hear all the options available to her, even if others believe she wouldn’t like them.

“These prisoners may have valuable information. They may even know who has been orchestrating this entire-”

“-The harpies have no more valuable information.” Daario’s tone is sharp as cuts off Ser Barristan, his arms folded on the table and he leans closer. The look on his face is one of ridicule, that he can’t believe Ser Barristan believes the prisoners deserve a better fate after all that they have helped cause.

Ser Barristan doesn’t back away, holding Daario’s gaze and his voice tinged with incredulity, “And how do you know that?”

“Because they’ve been interrogated.”

His face falls and he leans away, irritated. His eyebrows furrowed and rubbing his fingertips against his knuckles, a sigh she can barely hear passes through his lips and she knows he doesn’t like the way this meeting is going but what works in Westeros does not work here in Meereen. The harpies will not be given a chance to pretend that slavery is good, that all they have murdered will have no consequence to their fate. The supporters will not be excused either, they have helped welcome the Sons of the Harpy into the city, have directed their blades towards those vulnerable. They have blood on their hands too.

She ignores Hizdahr as he sits up to defend the supporters and instead looks to Missandei, who has sat silent so far. They meet each other’s stare and she wants to know what she thinks. She raises her eyebrows in question and Missandei quietly murmurs in Dothraki, a language none here at the table understand, “ _P_ _ublic execution?_ "

Her eyes cut to Mossador as his voice raises, bordering on shouting ‘ _They are born free!_ ’. She watches for a moment, quietly and once confident that a fight will not breakout she returns to face Missandei and replies back in the same soft murmur, her question more hesitant, “ _By sword or fire?_ ”

She waits for the disappointment, eyes searching wildly across Missandei’s face for horror at the implied suggestion of her question but nothing appears. Only a thoughtful quirk of her lips as she thinks it over and a slight turn of the head. The conclusion she must come to leaves a slight downturn to her lips and she tuts, an almost playful look in her eyes as she finally replies,

“ _Am I too biased for wanting fire? For thinking they don’t deserve the sword?_ ”

She has to press her lips together tightly to stop the grin from stretching across her cheeks, takes a second to calm her face but the corner of her mouth quirks up in a smirk as she leans in a little closer and is tempted to grasp her hand but the sound of arguing reminds her where she is.

“ _You have as much bias as I do._ ”

They share a smile and her heart is filled with so much love for her friend it hurts. She lets her gaze linger and when it falls to her neck, the smile falters briefly as she can envision a headless body pooling in blood, can feel a gaping maw in her chest swallow her happiness in seconds. Thankfully her attention is ripped away, back to the table as Mossador slams his hands down against the surface, a snarl is spread across his mouth and he glares at Hizdahr.

Quickly raising her hand, her voice cuts across the room loudly -”Enough!”- and she glares at both Mossador and Hizdahr, daring them to continue shouting.

Ser Barristan clears his throat and when she turns her glare to him, he merely takes a deep breath.

“If I may, Your Grace?”

She raises her eyebrows in permission and waits patiently as he takes a moment before he speaks, staring into her eyes and not flinching away.

“We don’t know if all these men committed murder.  We should give them trials at least. A fair one. Show all the citizens of Meereen that your better than those who would depose you, teach them a better way.”

Fair? What do people who orchestrate massacres in alleys and brothels know about fair? Why should she hold herself to a higher standard, stay her hand and show the people who slit the throats of her people compassion?

Apparently Mossador shares the sentiment with the way he huffs and shakes his head at Ser Barristan, disappointment evident.

“I do not know the place where Old Ser comes from. Things-”, he shrugs his shoulders half-heartedly, “-maybe are different there, I hope. But here in Meereen, before Daenerys Stormborn, they own us.”

His fingers begin to tap against the desk as his voice becomes harder, and he turns to stare at Hizdahr accusingly.

“So we learn much about them or we do not live long. They teach me what they are. Mercy, fair trial - these mean nothing to them. All they understand is blood.”

She becomes concerned as his voice catches on the last word and when his eyes begin to water. She watches closely as he looks away to take a deep breath before turning to look back at her imploringly, hands clenched against his legs and that sweet teary eyed stare. She can feel her composure slipping the longer she holds his gaze.

She has to look away, quickly pushing her seat back to stand up and the others follow suit.

“Thank you all for your counsel.”

She rests her hands upon the table, leaning her weight against them and takes a deep breath, once, twice and then stands up straight to curve her back. Her spine cracks and she follows it by cracking her knuckles to release the pressure gathering in the joints. One pop, then two, three and four before she moves to the other hand. She is also deliberately ignoring Ser Barristan who has stayed while the others left and is waiting patiently even as she takes a few more moments to loosen the fabric of her dress that has become bunched underneath her golden belt.

“Your Grace, a word, please I beg you.”

Perhaps she was too hopeful he would take the hint to leave.

“About what?”

“About your father. About the Mad King.”

Her breath hitches and she finds herself anxious to the turn this conversation will take. She peers over at him and whispers so quiet that he turns one ear closer to hear, “Please, Ser Barristan. Spare me the thought.”

But he doesn’t heed her command and instead comes closer, desperation lingering in his actions and leans down, “Your Grace, I served in his Kingsguard. I was at his side from the first.”

When she doesn’t reply he takes the initiative to keep talking, his voice steady despite the horrors he describes,

“When the people began to revolt against him, your father set their towns and castles aflame. He murdered sons in front of their fathers. He burned men alive with wildfire and laughed as they screamed, and his efforts to stamp out dissent led to a rebellion that killed every Targaryen except two.”

“I’m not my father.” But she could be. Some nights she dreams of memories past, of sprawling wings covering a vast city in darkness, vague shapes running through streets and screams she can hear that mingle together from the fleeing terror below to the rumbling rage she rides upon. On the worst nights, she dreams with startling clarity, of red flames descending through bricks and ducking into the spikes she holds as they collapse upon her body, the others tumbling down to crush those below. They never make it, not when a great burst of green flames billow upwards from buildings and pavements, flinging the bricks in all directions. When she wakes up, its with white knuckles and a frothing anger that leaves her crying because all she wants is to scream her lungs out, feel her throat burn until it _bleeds_ and gasp, heavy heaving breaths as her chest constricts with the desperate attempts to suck in air…

“No, Your Grace. Thank the gods, but the Mad King gave his enemies the justice he thought they deserved and each time it made him feel powerful and right. Until the very end.”

Her lips tremble as she takes quick breaths and she has to look away, eyes closed and a hand held up to stop Ser Barristan from speaking further. She doesn’t want to remember anymore but she knows she’ll never escape the memories, or the nightmares as she refers to them when speaking with others for they often leave the same feeling. She must always remember that every decision has consequences. Her’s just happened to be death.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and her hand slowly takes it place by her side as she struggles to look Ser Barristan in the eye, to confront his fear that she knows could be her future and for a second all she can smell is smoke. It tickles her nose and as soon as she takes a deep breath to be sure, it disappears until all she smells is that salty sea breeze you can only notice when you’re this high above the streets.

“I will not have the supporters for Sons of the Harpy executed without a fair trial. The harpies themselves however, will be publicly executed in two days time.”

That alone brings a small smile to Ser Barristan’s face, and he barely manages to rush out the words ‘Your Grace’ in the little laugh he exhales. He is quick to leave the room when she gestures towards the door and she is left standing alone, body slumping as she takes rest against a pillar. She faintly recognises footsteps coming back through the door and a hand comes into view, slowly intertwining with her fingers.

“Dany?”

It’s Missandei, slow in her movements and a comforting smile on her face. She holds her hand harder in return before pulling her into a hug. They stand silently together, swaying gently before she reluctantly parts, a hold on her arms that descend to grip her hands in order to keep her close.

Something quick tingles along her arms, zipping up and down her spine and she can feel a slow bloom of emotions dithering up the web of tethers in her mind, they flit back and forth between different threads almost hesitating before a tidal wave of concern and love crash against her own emotions and she can barely get a hand on them as swift whispers that overlap caress against her ears.

( **_Mother?_ **)

A gentle smile curves against her cheeks and she gathers Missandei’s attention with a little tug on her hands, head tilting towards the door, “Would you like to spend time with my children?”

Missandei pulls her to walk by her side and places a hand on the inside of her elbow, their arms rubbing together as they stay close. She ducks her head against her own, quick and mischievous as she smirks, “Only if you’re with me, I don’t think I’m quite ready to be cooked for dinner.”

She tuts and slaps a hand against her arm, laughing gently.

“Never, where would we be without you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jorrāelagon raqiros - dear friend
> 
> sorry about the absence but I actually had to sit and think about how far I wanted to take this story and then I realised how much backstory and subtle details about all of planetos that I would have to learn because I want an intricate society linked across all of the continents kinda made my head go boom
> 
> TL;DR i bought a new journal and filled it with facts I pulled from wikis and the books about westeros, essos and even motherfucking sothoryos
> 
> p.s. my view of hizdahr is tainted by the book, so if you only watch the show then read up on the character's wiki because there is heavy emphasis on what kind of man he is in the books.


	5. Draw Your Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clean the city, defeat her enemies and conquer Essos.
> 
> It's a simple to-do list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wack
> 
> also if its in italics then please assume its either internal thinking, messages or a different language (gauge this yourself) and I just want to POINT OUT NOW AND IM WRITING IN CAPITALS SO YOU'LL READ THIS scorpions won't be so fucking stupidly OP as they were in season 8. Like in the books the scorpions did fuck all, only bounced off the scales and it was a lucky shot to the eye that brought down Meraxes and even then she still destroyed Hellholt's highest castle tower while dying so...?
> 
> p.s. don't expect a solid uploading schedule

Night-time in Meereen was her favourite, when the sun set low behind the horizon and the torches began to light the streets. Her own source of light, a candle with wax dyed blue, burns brightly on the window sill. Yet even with the enchanting view in front of her she found no joy from where she stood alone, fingertips tracing the dried ink on the scroll in her palm. It’s a short message containing information from Yunkai. It appears despite his eloquence, Hizdahr zo Loraq was not as successful as he claimed.

‘ _Yunkai is gathering new levies and sending out envoys to form alliances against Daenerys Targaryen._ ’

Either Hizdahr is naive to the ways of the former masters or he is in actuality, a part of their cause. It would be unfortunate either way for as much as he grated on her nerves, he did suggest brilliant ways to improve the quality of the city. For example, in the time since he returned from Yunkai he had brought up the concept of constructing bell towers to warn the citizens of sieges, like their western counterparts and to help keep track of the hours in a day. Three times they would ring; an hour before the sun rises, a second time when it’s highest in the sky and a final toll an hour before the sun sets. She can see the wooden scaffolding from where she stands, the construction having begun much faster than she anticipated and its all due to the support from her people. Surprisingly, it was the parents most ardent in speeding along the building. For them, the bells created a safe schedule for the children to explore the city and return home before the sun set, where kidnappers lingered in the dark and stole in the dead of night.

Brilliant plans aside, there was of course a third option that the author of the message was delivering false information but considering that her enemies wouldn't like her to know they were moving against her and that the scroll was signed with a symbol of crudely drawn dragon wings, a pseudonym that her spies had only just begun to take on in the reports they delivered? Most likely not.

She would have to be vigilant of Hizdahr and assign spies to keep watch but only from the shadows. It would be best to leave him to believe that his _successful_ journey to Yunkai had helped instill trust in their relationship. She has no doubt he’ll eventually try to wrangle himself a place by her side by reminding her of this great deed he did, of creating peace and stopping two cities going to war. Unfortunately for Hizdahr, both spots at her side have already been claimed by the only people whose hands she would willing lay her life into; Missandei and Grey Worm.

Furthermore, with Yunkai now returned to the ways of slavery and Astapor struggling to remain free, she now finds herself in a difficult situation. If Yunkai are gathering allies against her then that means they’re building an army and the closest slaver city other than the main three is New Ghis, an island city far south in the Gulf of Grief. They are known for their iron legions, a highly disciplined military made up of free men that are held in the same esteem as her Unsullied.

If they march with Yunaki then they’ll descend upon Astapor on their way to Meereen and while they may take part in battle, she’s confident the iron legions will win which means there will be three cities against hers. By her estimate, they could have at least 40,000 men and that number will probably rise if they hire sellswords…

Her hand clenches the scroll, knuckles white and anger races through her veins. If they keep looking to expand the armies then they may turn to the Dothraki, after all they would accept slaves and horses in turn to fight for the masters. They’d most likely surround the walls to the city and with New Ghis as an island city, that means they’ll have ships and they’ll use them to blockade her ports.

No, that will not do. The only option she can see is using her dragons in battle, not just Drogon but Viserion and Rhaegal too. She'd also have to get to the Dothraki first. If she can convince them to follow her and…-

Her head swings around as the door to her room creaks open, the wood dragging against the stone and she watches silently with disbelief as Daario slips cautiously into her room. As he takes the time to glance back into the hallway she uses the candle to light the edge of the scroll and drops it onto the window sill, watching the paper blacken and curl into itself as it burns. When she hears Daario’s footsteps shuffle closer behind her she turns and he freezes in his tracks.

“Bold of you to enter my room without permission.”

His face scrunches, an awkward smile on his lips as embarrassment sweeps over his features and he shrugs his shoulders.

“It’s been so long since I last saw you alone. Everytime I wished to speak to you, you were surrounded by others.”

His offered words set her heart a flutter, the anger turning cool in her veins and the charming smile growing on his face subsequently encourages her own. She beckons him closer, falling into the hand that reaches up to caress her jaw and his skin grazing against hers cause goosebumps to ripple across her arms, the hairs standing on end as she pulls him by his shoulders so that with every breath they take their bodies brush against one another.

Now that she stands in his embrace, it really hits her just how much she missed this. The warmth of another body against hers, the intimacy of a lover. Tonight she can relax, enjoy herself and then tomorrow she'll plan to wage bloody war.

His fingers trail down her neck, lips following with gentle kisses that dip across her collarbones and over the swell of her breasts laid bare by the collar of her dress. She sighs, head tilting back and her eyes closed to enjoy the sensations but it doesn’t last long, not when she’s impatient and reaching back to tug at the strings holding her dress up. He gets the hint and helps loosen them, standing back to watch the fabric fall and reveal the curves of her body.

One palm rests on her ribs, his thumb brushing against the curve of her breast with gentle strokes that gradually climb up until his hands paw at her breasts. He dips down to take a nipple into his mouth and he rolls the other between his fingertips and her own hand tugs at the laces on his breeches, fingers slipping into the fabric and wrapping around his shaft. He moans against her breast and she smiles, tightening her fingers and stroking him slowly. He becomes too distracted by her hand, mouth stilling against her skin so she pushes him backwards with one hand, mouth detaching and leaving a wet shine against her nipple. A devilish smirk curls her lips and she drags her nails gently against his cock as she withdraws her other hand from his trousers before she guides him to the bed. When his knees hit the edge, he sits down and pulls her onto his lap, her knees coming to rest on either side of him as she lays another kiss to his lips and grinds down hard.

Its sloppy, a little rushed but she enjoys it all the same. Her head tilts to the side, guided by his hands and their lips press harder together, his tongue brushing against the seam of her lips and she opens them with a breathy sigh. As their tongues curl against each other, she reaches down to tug at his clothes and he helps remove the armour plating resting on his shoulders before finally pulling his shirt over his head.

His hands grab at her thighs, pulling her tightly against his body before rolling them over and stands up. He quickly kicks off his trousers, one foot briefly getting stuck before kneeling back onto the mattress. He shuffles closer and touches her once more, his fingers trailing between her breasts and down over her stomach. His eyes watch her face, cataloguing every twitch and flutter of her eyelids and when she lets loose a throaty groan when he finally touches her where she wants him most, his thumb rubbing at her clit and knuckles brushing her lips _she knows_ he’s smirking. His ego no doubt swelling but they've barely started and she will not have him ruin this moment with his mouth.

That's an idea.

So she grabs him at the back of the head, fingers slipping through his hair and grabbing tight at the roots. She raises a leg up so he can pull it over his shoulder, kissing the bend of her knee before she tugs his head down, biting her lip at the sight of his face descending between her legs and his eyes are locked onto hers as he breathes over her mound. She merely arches an eyebrow at him.

“You better get to work.”

He finally drags his tongue against her and her head lulls back.

She’s a queen, not a saint.

* * *

She thought today would be better. She truly did.

Yet here she paces in the throne room, anger in her veins and her thoughts a chaotic mess. An emergency meeting had been called into place when she was notified by White Rat that the rotation of Unsullied keeping guard in the cells where the supporters of the harpies are held, had found a group of eight men trying to sneak in. They had been arrested, their weapons seized and were now to be brought before her. Her heart sank when she heard that Mossador had been identified as part of the group and that he carried a bag of hammer and nails fit for a crucifixion. She knew he wanted the Sons of the Harpies dead but she thought he understood that she would not execute their supporters without a fair trial. Instead he had ignored her commands and tried taking matters into his own hands with violent means. There will be consequences to breaking the law, just because he has a place in her council does not mean he will go unpunished.

Thankfully, the prisoners remained unscathed and he had been prevented from committing murder. This meant that he himself would not be executed by order of the law. Instead she could choose the punishment for his actions and those in the group.

She can feel Missandei watching her and when she looks up she also notices Ser Barristan has abandoned his post behind the throne to come closer, a soft ‘Your Grace’ as she keeps pacing. She shakes her head at him and he steps back. It’s a difficult situation but she’s not sad, she doesn’t need to be comforted. She’s angry.

She comes to a halt when the group of men are marched into the hall, all cuffed and their heads bowed to avoid her gaze. Good, there will be no merciful Mhysa. Not when they break the law. They are guided by Unsullied and forced to stand before her, lined up and it is only Mossador who dares look her in the eye despite the rage she is sure shows on her face. He stands still and quiet, unlike the others who mumble amongst themselves and only glance at her in small moments at a time.

Despite the anger and disappointment, all she wants right now is to understand.

“Why?”

Short and to the point. She has no need to give grand speeches or reassurances, the situation is unwanted and she rather have it over and done with.

She watches stone faced as Mossador lowers himself to his knees, his hands raised as if in prayer and the others follow suit, copying his pose. He stutters at first, the low valyrian trapped between his lips.

" _For you Mhysa._ ”

She looks over them all, unflinching despite their hopeful gazes and she does not let up. Some of them slump their shoulders and drop their gaze to the floor. But Mossador still doesn’t give up.

“ _You wanted the Harpies dead but your hands were tied. I want to set you free, as you did all of us._ ”

Yes she wants the Harpies dead and she would have most likely turned a blind eye should they have attempted to murder the actual Sons of the Harpy but instead it was the prisoners awaiting trial for supporting them they went after. People she didn’t know who were complicit by choice or strong-armed into serving their previous masters.

She shakes her head at him and turns to descend down the steps when his face falls and the others began to beg in mumbles ( _Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa_ ). She ignores Daario when she passes him on the stairs, pulling her arm close to avoid the hand that stretches out, fingers barely touching against her wrist in a gesture too intimate between a Queen and her sworn sellsword. She continues on, away from his touch and shows no outward reflection of her emotions.

Ser Barristan has followed her down the steps, hovering behind her and he throws a questioning glance towards Daario, eyes flitting between the curious action. She ignores them and pulls Mossador to his feet, gesturing for the others to stand up too.

“ _They are my prisoners, awaiting trial. You have no right to kill them._ ” Her tone is steel, unrelenting as she scolds but even then she speaks quietly. She doesn’t want to cower them into submission, only for them to understand that they can’t kill everyone with alleged ties to the Harpy, otherwise they’ll only continue the cycle of violence and death.

Mossador grabs at her hands, holding them tight and doesn’t let go, only glancing warily towards Ser Barristan who palms the pommel of his sword cautiously.

“ _They would rather rip your city apart than see slaves lifted from the dirt._ ” His words are fevered with desperation, hoping that she understands the decisions he has come to make. She does understand, just doesn’t agree and it hurts to hear him refer to himself as still a slave. She twists her hand still in his grasp, wraps her fingers around his and squeezes tightly.

“ _T_ _here are no more slaves and there are no more masters._ ”

“ _Then who lives in the pyramids? Who wear gold masks and murder your children?_ ” He sneers as he says it and the words sting.

“ _When Grey Worm came to us, I was the first to take up the knife for you. I remember the look on my father’s face as I struck down his master, who had traded his infant son for a dog._ ”  She doesn’t tear up, there will be no pity. She remembers when her brother had traded her to Khal Drogo in exchange for his army. For every look of sorrow Ser Jorah had given her when he saw the marks bruised upon her body, the fire in her blood burned brighter and it felt gratifying when she finally let it loose upon the witch who left her baby, an innocent, mangled and deformed. She only rubs her thumb against his wrist in solidarity.

“ _My father died in the fighting. If we allow the Sons of the Harpy to return us to chains, he never lived._ ” His voice wobbles at the end but he stands defiant against the tears she can see gathering against his lids.

A silence overtakes the room and she takes a moment to think. She agrees with his view of killing the masters but she’s disappointed that he went behind her back and targeted the supporters, the prisoners of whom some may not be guilty of the crimes they’re accused of. She’s also been hesitant in making her decisions though, for when she executes the harpies publicly like she commanded, there’s no going back. Her enemies will know their fate when she gets her hands on them which means they’ll do their damndest to ensure their survival.

Unfortunately for her though, she knows their damndest will include the Iron Bank. The Masters had stuffed the pockets of those in the free cities and none had reaped the benefits so successfully as Braavos. While gold melts as easily as flesh under dragonfire, it can also buy them as many sellsword companies or armies as they require. The bank can persuade other cities in Essos, those already in debt to join their side because all it takes is to threaten the increase of payments. This very reason is why she’s been putting off drastic action because while her dragons grow in size every day, people still don’t believe they’re real which means they won’t be prepared when she uses them in battle. The Iron Bank however, is something she doesn’t believe will ignore the rumours about her, not when it rests on a system that helped build what they are today. It wouldn’t be hard for them to learn about warfare against dragons, it’s known that Dorne used scorpions to kill Meraxes, the dragon of her ancestor Rhaenys, but then again it was a lucky shot to the eye and Meraxes still managed to cause destruction while dying in her descent to the ground.

However, with what she remembers when she dreams, her own son Rhaegal was brought down by a lucky shot. The first bolt ripped through the thin membrane of his wing, the second bounced off his chest because the armoured scales were too thick but the last one? The last one managed to find a home in his neck, through barely healed wounds caused by his fight with Viserion. 

A small sigh escapes her lips. This is a war she won’t be able to stall for long, maybe enough to clean out her city and ensure her dragons have time to continue growing bigger so that when it all comes to a head, she’ll only have to worry if _she_ gets shot off with a scorpion bolt.

She reaches up and grasps firmly at Mossador’s shoulder.

“ _You will not slide back into chains, not while I still live and the only prisoners being executed are the confirmed Sons of the Harpy. Not the ones still awaiting trial. Do you understand?_ ”

She waits patiently, eyes meeting every gaze of every man cuffed. They slowly nod and she stands up straight, stepping back to address them all.

“ _As I previously instructed, the Sons of the Harpy will be publicly executed tomorrow. That is no longer happening-"_   her hand raises to silence the uproar of voices, their disapproval resonating throughout the room, "- _I’m bringing the execution forward. It will take place today, when the sun is highest in the sky. Their deaths will be for the entire city to witness. The supporters on the other hand, will have their trials tomorrow at first light._ ”

She commands for one of the Unsullied to release them and continues on.

“ _I want our enemies to know their fate. I want to assure my people that their Mhysa will protect them, that I will serve the justice they rightly deserve. In the meantime, you will all be confined to the lower level of the pyramid while your sentences for breaking the law will be debated._ ”

They bow in gratitude and while this moment may be sweet, she knows they’ll by angry later on for she has an idea of what punishment they deserve. When she claimed Meeren as her own, the revolt had left many children born into nobility orphaned and she had them placed in a building under constant guard and care. The children had no say in which families they were born into and she would not have them slaughtered in the streets. Mossador and his group of perpetrators would do well to see that appearances don’t always hold truth.

* * *

 

The large open market square is usually bustling, filled to the brim with stalls and shouting merchants trying to charm customers _(look at these wares; you can’t find them anywhere else; I guarantee their authenticity_ ). Now it’s barren under the beating sun, stalls disassembled and stored further down the street. The only sign of life around is the Second Sons guarding the four entrances to the square, Grey Worm who escorts the members of the council to the brick podium she stands upon and a large formation of Unsullied creating an extended barrier between the podium and the rest of the square. At this time of day the podium is normally claimed by the Red Priestesses who hold their sermons, endeavouring to spread the word of their holy lord and his inferno paradise. She’s wary of their preaching, their compelling speeches linger in the edges of her thoughts and when isolated in the comfort of her dreams she can remember a looming black void and silver tongue whispers.

Maybe she’ll send an invitation to speak with their head priestess stationed here in Meereen, if she can convince her to support her then she may gain a way into Volantis, one of the greatest free cities that’s ripe with slaves.

They’re thoughts for another time though, for she can see Black Rat, a newly established permanent guard for the cells, leading a group of nine Sons of the Harpy with his Unsullied unit of fifteen. They bring them towards her, below the podium and force them to stand in rows of three, spears pointed at their throats. She calls to the Second Sons and they open the entrances to the square, allowing a steady trickle of her citizens to form a crowd. The Unsullied stop them quite a distance away, out of throwing reach and they begin to mutter amongst themselves.

She waits patiently until they stop shuffling around each other, until their eyes lift to rest upon her instead of the Harpies glaring spitefully from below before she begins to shout in low valyrian. If there are hidden masters in the crowd then she wants them to hear every word.

“ _Kneeling here before you are our enemies, murderers who hide in our city and slaughter those they consider below them!"_

The crowd jeers and throw their hands up, calling for her to ‘ _k_ _ill the masters!_ ’ and some try to spit over the shoulders of the Unsullied. They push against the line and when she can see them becoming physically aggressive, she raises her hand. They slowly fall silent, while others still curse with fury and vitriol.

“ _I swore to myself that I would never let the Masters enslave another and I intend to keep that promise today!_ ”

She looks down upon the harpies and Black Rat commands his men to force them to kneel. One of them in the back is crying openly, eyes red and nose snotty. His brown stringy hair hangs limply over one shoulder and she feels nothing at the sight of him.

“ _I_ _f you have any last words, please speak now._ ”

A man in the first row, kneeling at the end screams up at her and his face is covered in red blotches as he rages at her, “ _Dragon Whore!_ ” and Black Rat steps forward to smack him with the butt of his spear as the other harpies scream obscenities with him.

They descend into silence when a vast shadow swallows the square into darkness and when they look up, eyes wide and limbs trembling, they watch as Drogon soars overhead. His roar resonates and echoes off the stones, drowning out the crowd who has slowly fallen quiet. When he flies over her, she lifts her hand and then in a blatant gesture for everyone to see, she slowly points to the ground beside her. Her son banks, curving back around in her direction and comes to land beside her. His wings blow the dirt and dust into the air, her skirt whipping around her legs and the ground shakes when his feet strike against the cobblestone. Her council who stood behind her in quiet vigilance have backed up away from the podium, out of reach from Drogon’s tail that sways back and forth in agitation, the spikes dragging gouges through the stones.

She reaches out to smooth a palm across his scales, his frills relaxing from their bristled position and a rumble vibrates through his throat as he leans his head into her hands. While petting him, she looks to the Sons of the Harpy and asks again, “ _If you have any last words, please speak now._ ”

They merely sit, fear evident on their faces and eyes glued to her son. She looks to Black Rat, inclining her head and he commands his men to retreat, joining the barrier of Unsullied keeping the crowd of people out of reach. They’re shuffling against each other, raised on toes to watch the scene clearly before them.  She stands tall, shoulders back and voice raised.

“ _I, Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, Queen of Meereen and Mother of Dragons sentence you to die._ ”

A hush falls over the square.

“Dracarys.”

Drogon stands tall, teeth bared and shrieking. The Unsullied push the crowd further back as he lowers his head to stare at the Sons of the Harpy before his neck arches and he snaps his mouth open. Red fire streaked by black bellows from his mouth, drowning the men in flame and she can hear them scream for a second before it’s washed away by the roar of fire. The stone they knelt on begins to warp and bubble, melting under Drogon’s violent flame.

She turns her head towards her council as her son stops breathing fire and the flames are reduced to flickers on the stone. Missandei nods at her from her place beside Grey Worm and the only members not satisfied by the proceedings are Ser Barristan and Hizdahr zo Loraq. She’s not surprised by Ser Barristan, she knows he had watched her father burn people alive and he’s strongly stated his opinions on violence. Hizdahr though, she’s not entirely sure where his allegiance lies.

“Ser Barristan.” He drags his eyes away from the molten mess of ash and stone, looking to her and only coming so close. His eyes flit warily between her and Drogon who shuffles in place, head tilted back to watch his mother with a careful eye.

“Your Grace?”

“Have the trials for tomorrow prepared.” He nods and takes a quick step back when Drogon’s tail sways too close by his body that he's not comfortable with.

“If I may ask, Your Grace, what will you do till then?”

The tether between her and her son strums with silent questions and when she looks up into his eyes, she can feel the whisper of his question on her tongue ( ** _sōvēs?_** ). She looks back to Ser Barristan, 

“I’ll show my enemies who this city belongs to.”

Drogon dips his shoulder down as she strides towards him, his wing bent and neck extended to form a path for her to climb up. When she steps onto his wing, a hand braced against his neck to keep her balance Ser Barristan rushes forward as does the rest of her council while he shouts to her.

“You mean to ride him!?”

Ah, she’d forgotten that only White Rat and a select few of Unsullied who were guarding the catacombs had seen her take flight. She doesn’t respond, the answer is obvious and when she takes her place between Drogon’s shoulder, she leans forward to grab the spikes in front of her. The crowd still gathered in the square panic when he spreads his wings open and flaps them. The drag of the air knocking some to the ground as he finally lifts off and ascends into the sky.

They glide above the city, taking precedence to circle the pyramids while announcing their presence with a thundering roar that’s soon joined in by Rhaegal who descends from the clouds and Viserion, flying in from the north.

She'll bring war to the slavers. They'll soon know why the words of her house are 'Fire and Blood'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as it turns out, writing porn is weird and the second siege of meereen is more a of clusterfuck than i remember
> 
> yeah I changed rhaegal's death, what about it
> 
> also do you guys like the gifs I put in? I just sometimes find it hard to visualise when i read about the dragons or certain environments so I put them in so you can imagine what I imagine! Can you tell me if you like them or not? I don't want to keep putting them if you get annoyed at them
> 
> yes the dragons are still around Drogon's size at the end of season 6


	6. Quick Update(Not a Hiatus)

Hey lads, sorry about this long period of inactivity. For your knowledge, this story is **NOT** on hiatus and has **NOT** been abandoned. A chapter will be coming out soon and it will be  _long_.

I unfortunately had a very bad week which turned into  _a lot_ of  _terrible_ weeks where I ended up getting the cold which in turn lead to my ear drum ripping and then getting infected. That's not all folks! The infection spread down my face and I ended up having an extended stay at the hospital and now I'm finally back.

So those still subscribed and those who pop back in to leave comments, thank you so much. I read them all and I really appreciate you all for sticking around! 

Sin xxx


	7. tlachd às na rudan beaga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days are long and boring but further south, they're bloody and hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've assumed they would have dressers because if they have desks with drawers then surely they have places to store their clothes other than chests
> 
> also sorry if this took longer than expected after my update, I put the story through text to speech and there were like 5 instances where I somehow didn't type the last half of some sentences? I guess I thought them while I was typing but didn't actually finish typing and instead moved on to the next sentence which is...weird. I hope I fixed them all but if you find mistakes, then just know my brain glitched and I never noticed.
> 
> ITALICS FOR SPEECH IS VALYRIAN, don't worry, not every piece of dialogue will be in italics. It's just that it makes sense to me that dany and missy would mostly speak valyrian when alone together, especially considering it's dany's first language that also connects her to her family and she's got a best friend who speaks it fluently? yeah.

She was warm.

The blanket she found herself cocooned in was trapping heat and she could feel her skin begin to prickle but she refused to move, far too comfy and relaxed. The rising sun shining through her open shutters ripples in and out of view against her closed lids, her vision fading periodically to black. She heaves a sigh, a clenched fist pulling the bed sheet up and over her head, burying deeper into the mattress, willing herself to fall back asleep.

_Just let the peace last a little longer,_ she thinks.

It’s not to be, not when she hears gentle knocks against her door and pulls the blanket down, her hair catching on the fabric and being pulled with it. She peers through the strands blearily, her voice hoarse as she calls out, “ _C_ _o_ _me in!_ ” and watches cautiously as the door is pushed open and a little smile curls her lips as Missandei quietly shuffles in. She’s dressed and ready for the day, a simple orange dress that hooks around her neck and leaves her arms bare. Missandei closes the door quietly behind her and comes to sit on the bed, reaching to pull the sheet from her grasp.

She can’t bring herself to not sigh as Missandei tilts her head and gives her an expectant look.

" _The sun has only risen._ ”

Missandei only huffs, a breathy laugh before she catches sight of the open shutters and turns back with an unimpressed look, “ _What would your guards say if they knew you slept with the shutters open?_ ”

She rolls her eyes, slowly sitting up and brushing her hair back from her face, “ _That anyone could climb up and slit my throat while I sleep, I know._ ”

She reaches forward to pull the blanket from her legs and stands up, Missandei following her as she dallied to the entrance of the balcony and leaned against the shutter. Missandei came up behind her, hands reaching to comb through her hair, brushing through the tugs as gently as she could.

“ _Perhaps Dany, we should also have guards on the balcony. At least during the night, so you’re not alone?”_

Her head began to tilt back, eyes closing as she felt Missandei’s nails scratch against her scalp and a hum on her lips, her words a whisper, “ _I’m not alone._ ”

The scratching stopped as Missandei leaned over her shoulder, a bemused look on her face, “ _What do you-Oh!_ ”

Missandei stumbled back as a spiked tail swept down from the roof, casting a shadow against the both of them and she quickly latched onto her hand, as if to pull her back with her. She didn’t move, merely watched as the sun reflected off the creamy scales and shone through the frills lining the sides. It took Missandei a moment before she realised what exactly she was staring at but once she did, she let loose a sigh of relief, “Viserion.”

She tugged Missandei to her side, pulling her close in reassurance as she reached her hand out to lay upon the scales, nails running through the indents that separated each individual one and bit her lip to prevent the grin threatening to break free as she felt the tail twitch. An awareness bloomed in her mind and a faint trill echoed down from the roof before the tail was swept back up as Viserion woke. He took his time to get up, much like herself, reluctant thuds coming closer and dust descending from the ceiling before he leaned on the balcony with his wing, the thumb claw gripping tight onto the bricks. His head came into view slowly, eyes half-lidded and still crusted with sleep before extending his neck to nuzzle against her outstretched hand.

She stepped closer, coming out into the light and her hands travelled up across his scales and over his oval horns. Her fingertips lingered on the sharp points before she cupped his jaw, spikes jutting between her fingers and pressed a lingering kiss below his eye. His rumbling purr vibrated through his body and tickled her lips, leaving her giggling as she pushed his head away.

“Go, you silly boy. Find your brothers.”

A swift image passed in front of her eyes, her mind catching it and holding tight before it disappeared. A looming mountain and at its base, a burnt patch of grass littered with blackened bones. Wherever that mountain is, her children have currently nested for their hunt.

She stood still in the entrance, watching as his wings spread to take off and with one push, he was off and into the air. She lingered where she stood, eyes tracking his figure as he flew further away until he was nothing more than a speck in the sky.

Missandei’s hand settled on her shoulder, encouraging her to come back inside, “ _You have a long day ahead. The people are coming to seek an audience with you. It's best to get ready now._ ”

She followed her in, coming to sit on the foot of her bed and lifting her feet to rest on the clothing chest below her as Missandei pulled open one of the drawers on her dresser and grabbed multiple dresses to present. It would be a long day indeed, nothing that she wasn’t prepared to handle, of course. There were serious matters that some of her people came forth with but with them, there were also trivial matters presented to her by those who couldn’t settle their grudges between themselves and instead trekked the long journey to meet her, only to ask her to settle an argument. She remembered clearly one time when two men came before her and had requested that she settle the resentment stewing between them that was caused by one, a customer, that had refused to pay the full price of a beverage to the other man, a barkeeper. They had quickly left with their tails tucked between their legs when she had expressed her annoyance. There were people who had come to her with no homes, who had lost their jobs or were trying to find family that were stolen and sold by the masters and wished for her to help them be reunited or at least point them in the right direction but these men had the audacity to stand before her, instead of acting with maturity and realising they could handle this problem themselves.

It seemed every day there were more problems arising, most likely due to the fact that people were realising that her title of Queen wasn’t just that, a title. They realised that she would be actively trying to help them, that they were welcome to seek an audience with her and express the troubles they were struggling to live with.

“ _What about this one?_ ”

With her attention drawn back to Missandei and to the short maroon dress she held up for her inspection, she stood up, a hum on her lips as she let her fingers trace the stitches in the fabric. It was pretty but the fabric was thicker than her other dresses, mainly due to the fact this was one of the pieces she had sewn by a seamstress to be worn when riding Drogon. The hem fell to her knees and the front of the dress split and shaped into a v that closed at her hips to allow her more room to move when mounted.

She grasped the dress and moved towards the chest at the foot of her bed, opening it and pulling out a pair of her riding leathers before heading to the wooden divider placed further back in the room.

“ _Are there people already queuing?_ ”

She heard Missandei shuffle closer, her hand reaching over the lip of the divider and waiting. She shuffled her night shift from her shoulders and placed it in Missandei’s hand before grabbing her trousers, fingers pulling at the strings to loosen the waistband.

“ _When Ser Barristan checked earlier, the queue had reached the bottom of the pyramid steps._ ”

Missandei could hear her sigh from behind the divider, a smile rising on her lips as she heard her mutter under her breath.

* * *

 She was standing at the bottom of the steps leading to her simple throne bench, Grey Worm standing close by and Ser Barristan standing with Missandei on the steps behind her. She had descended earlier when she no longer felt the sleep weighing her eyelids down and decided that she would like to speak face-to-face to her people, rather than speak down to them from her elevated position.

“ _Thank you, truly Your Grace,_ _**thank you** _ _._ ”

Her hands were clenched tightly by the elderly man before her who was trying to bow in gratitude. She tried to pull him up but was unsuccessful as he refused to budge, his forehead pressed tightly against one of her hands while her other she had managed to free and was gesturing for Grey Worm to come help her.

“ _There is no need, please, stand straight so I can see your face._ ”

Grey Worm came to stand beside her, helping the old man to straighten his back and left a hand curled around his elbow to stop him from swaying. She looked him in the eye, an embarrassed smile lingering on her lips and she helped straighten the loose robes hanging from his shoulders.

“ _Would you like an escort back down the steps?_ ”

The man smiled and patted her hand, “ _No need, Your Grace. These old bones made the journey up and they can make the journey back down._ ”

She inclined her head and watched as he turned and made his way out the door, past the Unsullied guarding the entrance and then turned left, disappearing out of view down the corridor. The old man’s name was Belorno, one of the many freedmen who had trouble finding employment and he had came to her today to ask for her assistance. Once she learned that he had previously taught numbers to children and adults alike, she had employed him to teach the children in the orphanages. 

There were only three total in the city, with a fourth currently in construction to help with the influx of refugees from other cities who had fled here in search of a better living that she is trying her best to give. Most were children found at the gates, whose parents had perished in self-sacrifice on the journey to ensure their children made it or were still stuck in slavery in the other cities but had managed to sneak their children out of the city walls through whatever means available to them.

She stepped closer to Grey Worm, voice hushed as she laid a gentle touch on his forearm, “ _Inform the guards of Belorno’s presence at the Kasta Riñar Lentor._ ”

Teachers weren’t only the presence she had at the orphanages. There were now patrols set around the buildings and a set of Unsullied guards that were stationed inside to prevent kidnapping or selling of the children. The guards inside had two groups of the same soldiers that swapped everyday and there would be no new guards unless they had been told previously in order to prevent someone assuming the identity of a guard to get inside. This meant they would be recognised immediately since there would only be a certain amount of guards allowed to be stationed inside each and every orphanage. So far the system worked, but it would stay under her watchful eye until she was completely certain it would be successful long-term.

Grey Worm nodded, swinging around to exit the room but looked back once to Missandei before leaving. She turned her head around, eyebrow raised in question as she cast her own look at Missandei who pursed her lips and looked bashful. With the way she struggled to meet her eyes and the way her fingers interlocked and squeezed each other, she knew that Missandei also knew that she wouldn’t escape her curious inquisition.

She cleared her throat and raised her voice for the soldiers in the doorway, “ _Let the next one in._ ”

The queenly veneer faded from her face as the woman who entered appeared bedraggled, her face streaked with tear lines, eyes bloodshot and vast purple bruises sprawling across her throat. Her hands shook as she clung tightly to the little girl who stood by her side, a vague expression on her cherubic face as she peered around the room. They were both dressed in simple, long and beige dresses with hems that wrapped around their calves. The woman’s hair was pulled back and wrapped into a yellow fabric.

They hesitated and shuffled their feet against the stone and it wasn’t until she gestured them to come forth with a soft wave that the woman stepped forward, picking the girl up and placing her on her hip as she came to a stop merely steps away. She started to sniffle, her lips wobbling as she brushed a hand through the girl’s hair and then looked up, her eyes teary.

“ _Please, Your Grace. I beg your help._ ”

Her chest squeezed with the words and she brought a hand forth to bring the woman closer, leading her and the girl towards the steps. She sat down and the woman copied her, slinging the little girl across her lap.

“ _Speak to me. What’s wrong?_ ”

The woman’s words spilled from her lips, some garbled but they were enough to set a fire blazing in her soul.

_“I’ll speak honestly, Your Grace. I’m a…I work in the brothel, I have for years and it was before my daughter here was born. The owner, his name is Krahoz mo Hazkar, he tried to take Sila from me. Said that her moonblood made her a woman now._ ”

The woman clutched her daughter tighter, a sob leaving her throat as Sila buried her head into her mother’s shoulder.

“ _Please don’t let him take her. She’s all I got._ ”

She shushed her, a hand coming up to rub her back and she wiped away the tears with her thumb.

“ _What’s your name?_ ”

“ _Erines._ ”

A soft and sympathetic smile rested on her face and she stood up, pulling the woman and child with her. She led them up the steps, past the throne as Missandei and Ser Barristan fell into step behind them, including Malos, the Unsullied soldier. He was one of the few who had chosen to take on a new name and he had been standing in the shadows of the steps to the dais.

“ _That’s a lovely name, Erines. If you’ll come with me, I’ll give you and your daughter a room here for now while I go settle this matter with Krahoz personally._ ”

Erines’ eyes went wide, as Ser Barristan’s distressed ‘Your Grace’ was ignored and she continued leading the woman into the west corridors, towards the rooms most of the staff employed used. The personal ones for her advisors and her own were on the uppermost levels. She came to a stop in front of one of the doors situated in the middle of the hallway. Grabbing the handle and pushing it open, she watched as Erines and Sila entered the room slowly, their eyes flitting across the furniture.

“ _It’s all very basic I’m afraid...-_ ”

Erines swung around, a smile lighting up her face as Sila took a running start towards the bed, jumping onto the mattress and letting herself fall backwards, head sinking into the pillows with an ‘oomph’.

“ _It’s perfectly fine, Your Grace. It means so much to me, that you would do this._ ”

“ _I’m glad you think so._ ”

She locked eyes with Missandei, a question resting on her lips that she apparently already knew and nodded, stepping further into the room. She mouthed ‘thank you’ in reply before returning her attention to Erines who had turned back to her daughter, telling her to sit up.

“ _If you don’t mind, Missandei here would get you settled in. She’s my most trusted advisor and if you have any questions or within reason, some requests, I’m sure she could help._ ”

She stepped back out of the room, leaving Missandei and Erines to speak. With a quick word to Malos, to stay with Missandei until she said otherwise, she began the journey back to the throne room and Ser Barristan followed her, coming to walk beside her, his head tilted forward to garner her attention.

“Do you believe it’s wise to go to the brothel?”

It was a genuine question, she could tell by the slightly confused look he held and she nodded her head in response, eyes flitting towards his.

“I’ve had many problems I want to address with the brothels. This has allowed me to speed up the process and if I’m being honest, it has made me _very_ angry.”

Ser Barristan looked down in thought, lagging behind as they passed through the archway to the throne room and coming to a stop at the bench. His fingers tapped away at the pommel of his sword and he hesitated to speak.

“What will you do?”

She sighed, head turning away in thought.

“The situation of Erines and her daughter will be addressed. I will not let a child be forced into prostitution. I already know the pain it will cause.”

Ser Barristan grimaced, no doubt understanding her meaning. While her marriage to Khal Drogo eventually prospered, she was still a child who had been sold by her brother in exchange for an army. She remembered the pain on her wedding night and the desolation that had consumed her on many nights that followed after, where the only comfort she could seek was thoughts of her death until she and Khal Drogo had come to an understanding and then she had found out she was with child. The thought of a son had opened a softer side to her husband she had only caught glimpses of. That and the thought of being a mother was enough to bring some light back into her life.

“I have no doubt Krahoz mo Hazkar has also laid his hands upon her mother and most likely any other women in his brothel.”

She stared at Ser Barristan, wondering whether or not she should share the following information, her own hesitancy of the change she wants to make weighed heavy on her shoulders.

“One of the changes I want to make to the laws of this city is to do with the brothels.”

He looked at her, his eyebrows raised in question.

“I want the ownership of the brothels to be claimed by the crown.”

The surprise spread across his face as he turned to face her fully, his mouth open as he struggled to speak.

“I know it’s unconventional but the way these women are being treated is something I’m familiar with and I’m not the only one who recognises that they are loosely slaves in all but name.”

She clenched her jaw in annoyance, these women were trying to make a living like any person in this city but they were ridiculed for their profession and treated poorly by their customers. Their employers were cruel too, she knows they take a large cut of the profits these women make and like Krahoz, try to use their children for their own gain. They beat them bloody and expected nothing of the consequences. Not anymore.

“It has also come into my knowledge while looking into the purchase of the brothels that all the owners are noblemen.”

That caught Ser Barristan’s attention, his eyes narrowing and she could see the way he came to the same realisation she had.

“You believe they may be contributing to the Sons of the Harpy.”

She shrugged her shoulders but the smile on her face concluded her certainty, “They have the money to fund them and the perfect places to hide should they need to quickly get away from the crimes they commit.”

He slowly began to nod his head, it seemed to make sense and explained how the numbers of the Harpy never appeared to decrease. If they used the money at their disposal from the brothels then they could hire mercenaries from outside the city instead of sacrificing their own blood to their causes.

“You can’t do it today though, it’s too soon to plan anything solid that you could use successfully.”

She nodded in agreement. She wasn’t going to take action right this moment but hopefully for tomorrow, they could come up with something that might work.

“Tomorrow then.”

Straightening up, they both turned towards the entrance of the hall and once again, she called forth for the next person.

* * *

He is young and he is standing alone, with only his brother for company.

They have no friends left, they had quickly starved to death when the food ran out. Too slow to catch the cats and to weak to keep ahold of the dogs. The rats didn’t serve them better either, instead leaving them sick and too weak to even move. There were too scared as well, unlike himself and his brother, to join the adults in secret meetings where they would draw lots and whoever unlucky enough to draw the black stone from a cloth sack filled with painted white stones, would have their flesh feasted upon. It had left his friends filled with disgust but in the end they died, and he and his brother still stood today, here on the walkway above the gates. They had bows in their hands and arrows sitting in containers by their feet.

The pyramid behind them had finally stopped burning last night, the bricks stained with soot and the clouds above them were still dark with smoke, blocking the sun and draining Astapor of any warmth. Not that it made any difference. The crops had been devoured by sellsword companies and any deliveries to the city were blocked on the road by yunkish foot soldiers and their ports were blocked by the ships from New Ghis.

The siege by Yunkai and its allies had left them suffering and desperate enough to go through with this stupid plan.

From where they stood, they could see the enemy camps and the siege wall guarded by the foot soldiers. The cavalry were quick to take position when they noticed the bowmen peering over the wall of Astapor, the horses braying loud enough to be heard even from here as their riders jerked the bits and forced them to move through the organised chaos.

Below them was their own army, a mockery of the unsullied, sitting a dead king cloaked in copper armour upon a starving horse that wore its own shiny scale mail. They propped the corpse in the saddle and tied the reins to its rotting hands. Soon they shoved the wooden gates open and filed out by the crumbling brick walls, onto the field and towards their death, the creaking of the gates echoing as they closed behind them.

“ _We’re not going to win._ ” His brother muttered, propping his bow up and taking aim.

“ _No, we’re not._ ” He replied, pulling the string on his bow back and aiming across the field.

War drums begin to beat in the distance, the Yunkai struggling to get their half-trained slave soldiers into position as the unsullied drew closer, spears pointed forward and their shields held up. The dead king rode behind the first wave of unsullied as they pierced through the siege lines. The screams began to travel across the field as they slash at one another, spears being thrown and swords battering against scratched shields. 

Thousands of cavalry soldiers belonging to the Windblown and Company of the Cat sellswords gallop towards the battle from the flanks and crash through the unsullied with loud war cries and glinting swords raised in the air that swing down in bloody arcs, carving through flesh and armour alike. The unlucky ones get caught under the horses, hooves caving in skulls and crushing rib cages like they were nothing more than twigs.

He releases his arrow, his brother following suit and then hundred others as well. He loses track of his own as it melds with the others but he still watches as they descend through the sky. One catches his eye as he reloads and takes aim again, momentarily watching it pierce through a man’s neck, his arm that’s raised mid-swing falls limply against his side before he keels over. His ally or enemy he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t wait to ponder before letting loose another arrow.

A legion from New Ghis marches up from behind the Yunkish, their own spears pounding a strong rhythm against their polished shields and half take place behind the slave soldiers, reinforcing their lines while the other half pushes through to meet the unsullied spear-to-spear.

He drops his bow with a yell when a rogue arrow falls from the sky that just slices the skin of his hand and when he looks up, his face falls in horror at the volley of arrows heading straight for them. He grabs his brother, yanking him down and against the wall, curling against each other as arrows break against the stone beneath their feet. Some bounce and land no worse for wear, others fly past and below into the city. He ignores the screams as he kneels, grasping for any arrows he could reach before attempting to find his bow.

His brother pulls at him, screaming for him to leave it and trying to stand them both up. He ignores him, finally feeling the wood against his palm as he quickly struggles to take aim again, nocking the arrow and aiming into the battle. The string is a sliver away from sliding from his fingers when the battle falls silent and as he searches wildly for the cause, his eyes settle on a tall imposing man carrying a strange curved sword. The man had slit the dead king’s armour open from shoulder to hip and he couldn’t help the frown of disgust as wriggling worms poured forth from the corpse. The surrounding soldiers quickly backed up, as the guts pooled on the ground, the corpse slumping and contorting backwards against the panicking horse.

The silence hung in the air, then one of the unsullied threw down his shield and spear, turning towards the city and sprinting as fast as he could, using his shoulder to slam anyone in his path out of the way. One by one, others threw down their own weapons and began turning their backs on the enemy, running to the gates with a horrible panic that twisted their faces in terror.

It was futile.

They slammed against the gates, pounding and beginning to scream when they wouldn’t open. They had been locked from the inside, by order of their monarchs.

He could only watch as the army piled up, shouting, begging to be let back in as the Windblown begin to ride down the fleeing men. A slaughter soon followed as they trample through the crowd, breaking through one side but only to turn around and rush through again.

His brother pulls him from the edge, as the grass is flooded with blood and directs him down the wall and back onto the ground. They catch a glimpse of the gate that shakes with pounding desperation, blood trickling under the wood and turn away, running into the city. He knew they weren’t going to win.

He just didn’t know it would be that brutal.

* * *

 

She’s sitting by a faceless woman, with long white hair that flows freely down her back and wears a crown upon her head that has a grey band that fluctuates with ripples which then extends up into the shape of a dragon neck and head that’s adorned with rubies.

She knows they were just speaking but now she no longer remembers the conversation they just had and can only stare blankly at the woman in confusion. She turns to glimpse at her environment, sparsely scattered grass and colossal black mountains with red liquid exploding from the tip, that rolls down the slant in a mesmerizing pattern.

The sun and moon are nowhere to be seen, the sky left as nothing more than an empty void as the stars somehow don’t exist and it feels like the darkness is pressing down on her, suffocating her and it leaves her lungs burning as she coughs. She curls down into her knees, trembling as she tries to control her breathing with her fingers tapping a three second count to breathe in, hold and release.

When she feels the air sting her nose and cool her throat, she lifts her head up and notices the woman has stood, a hand raised to point in the direction behind her. She slowly turns her head, startling as she looks upon a river with green luminous water she never knew she was sitting by and almost feels hypnotized as the glowing colour lights up the land. She crawls closer, watching as the water bubbles and ripples spread to the banks, her eyes focused on the centre as two points break the surface. The points begin to rise, the shape taking form and she watches in disbelief as the head of a horse rises up, fur pale as the moon with a knotted mane and tail. It strides out of the water and she stands up as it gets closer, a hand reaching to touch it, her fingers almost brushing against its whiskers…

Bony fingers grasp her wrist, the nails digging into the skin and yanking her hand down and away. She cries in pain as the woman tugs her backwards but falls quiet when she notices the blood oozing from the horse’s eyes and nostrils, foam gathering at its mouth and the way it’s skin is pulled so tight across its skeleton, she could count the bones in it’s spine. There are round, puckered wounds spread across it’s stomach that’s oddly extended and she gags when she sees the head of white worms poke out of them, that slowly slither their way out and fall to the ground.

She feels heat pool across her spine and burning hands come to rest against her neck as the woman behind her leans over her shoulder, her own cheek pressed tightly against hers and she stills, paralyzed with uncertainty. She whispers, her breath tickling against her skin and the hands grip painfully tight against her shoulders..-!

She wakes with a jerk, her heart pounding and sweat lining her forehead. Her mind bursts alive with thoughts not her own and a fire spreads from her stomach to all her limbs as she can hear her children screeching as they wake as well. The thumping of their wings against the air falls silent as all three settled once again on the side of the pyramid and she can feel the tethers being yanked in their panic.

“I’m ok.” She whispers, reaching to wipe the sweat from her face with the back of her hand. She stumbles out of bed to the balcony, her legs wobbly as she makes her way outside and turns to look up as her children knock against each other in their descent to get closer to her. Drogon reaches her first, nostrils pressed gently against her scalp as he scents her, not satisfied until he can reassure himself that she is not hurt. She spreads her arms, letting Rhaegal and Viserion sniff at her palms and simply waits until they relax, their bodies slumping as the adrenaline fades.

She cups Drogon’s jaw, her forehead coming to rest between his nostrils and takes deep breaths in tandem with his. As her heart rate begins to slow, she pushes the dream to the back of her mind. She could pick it apart tomorrow but for now, she’ll stay in the comforting company of her sons and drown out the whispers with sound of their purrs.

  
‘ _ Beware the Pale Mare.’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany's room is near the top of the pyramid but it's built into the side, the very top is where the harpy was dragged down and has been constructed into the gardens. Viserion was sprawled awkwardly across the bricks, kinda like falling asleep on the stairs.
> 
> kasta riña lentor means 'blue child house' since I couldn't find a translation for the word orphange. Also the orphanges have all been painted on by the children explaining so that why I refer them all as [*colour* child house].
> 
> I couldn't remember the siege of astapor well enough so i just searched it up instead of reading it again because I also had no chance finding the exact passage in the books in a short amount of time


	8. dèan rudeigin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is not written in stone. Only some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONLY A SMALL CHAPTER  
> yeah so i lost motivation to write this cause i got stuck on that 'left too long, don't care, don't remember the plot' soooo
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> also this is where we completely ditch the plot and its basically the rainbow road; where we going?? into deep space apparently

The air smelled putrid and its warmth curled in the back of her throat, leaving her nauseous as she stood before a field of corpses. She pulled the loose scarf draped around her throat up and over her nose, a paltry attempt to block out the smell. The dead littered before her were rotting and the sight brought tears of frustration to her eyes. She should have known better.

Her dreams come true.

_She should have known._

The ghastly dream from weeks before had lingered in the recesses of her mind, the pale mare that stood dying before her had been a warning but in her ongoing attempts to rid the city of harpies she had forgotten. So busy culling heads of rebellion and washing the streets with the blood of her enemies, she had thought nothing of the sick refugees turning up at the gates. They had told her of Astapor's fate, the sole survivors fleeing into the deserts while the rest were slaughtered when Yunkai had smashed through their gates. The rage she had felt building was drowned by the pain she saw lacing their bodies and in her sympathy, she placed them in a temporary camp outside the walls until their sickness passed, healers volunteering to help and never returning before she eventually noticed the dire situation when Drogon had flown overhead. His disgust had been palpable and she allowed her conscious to slide along his, eyes sharing the same sight over a still camp and the stench of death evident even at this height in the sky. She had abruptly dismissed herself in the middle of a tour, led by the architects she hired who had finally finished their work of the bell towers and were discussing the options of turning the empty pyramids from now deceased _noble_ slavers into places of healing.

Too little, too late.

"Your Grace?"

A gentle touch at her elbow drew her from her thoughts, her gaze settling on Daario who stood by her side with a look of concern as he slowly watched her reaction. With a deep sigh that shuddered in her chest she turned back to the camp, a critical eye passing over slumped tents and bodies draped through the grass.

"Search for any survivors. We'll build somewhere further down the wall and," she turned to look Daario in the eye, a hand pointing at his chest and a stern look set to her face, " _make sure_ that everyone washes thoroughly. Don't let anyone into the city, this will spread no further. Once we've sorted this, we'll burn the remains."

She's granted a firm nod in return to her commands and Daario is quick to set off at a brisk pace to spread the message. She lingers for a moment, guilt slowly unfurling beneath her breast and the pain grips tight with every breath. She turns and doesn't look back.

Later she will mount Drogon and together as the sun sets, they'll light the remains.

The flames don't die till morning.

* * *

When the sun rises the next day, her handmaidens found her already dressed in her solar, hair loose and spilling down her back like silver waves. She sends all but Jhiqui away and once the door shuts she tilts her head, gesturing to the maps spread open on her desk. Jhiqui slides up close, shoulders pressed against her own and peers at the map.

" _Khaleesi?_ "

The map on top depicts Slaver's Bay and her attention rests solely on the routes between Meereen and the southern cities. With Astapor fallen to the masters, it won't be long until Yunkai come north. She knows from the refugees and the Dragon Wings, her own little spy network that continues to grow with each passing week, that ships from New Ghis had blocked the ports in Astapor. There's no doubt in her mind that they'll follow the coast to perform the same manoeuvre and she wonders if this life will follow like the last. Will they bring trebuchets or will they deviate from unwritten history ( _future_ , her mind whispers) and mount their ships with scorpions in false belief that her children are still no bigger than horses?

With glee bordering on vindictive she brushes the thought away for every time she stands in the presence of her children, she notes with pride as their wings expand to further blot out the sun, footsteps that now rumble stone and how her head barely brushes against Viserion's chest, the smallest, when they stand tall.

She still worries about her Unsullied though. Yunkai has employed sell swords of their own and while yes, the Second Sons stand by her, she can feel the scales tipping in their favour. Yunkai continues to hire and gain more allies to form a force that could cause drastic harm to her own army for Slaver's Bay is not the only cities in Essos effected by her abolition of slavery. She cares for her Unsullied, for Meereen and any option to increase their advantage she will take.

She drags a finger from Meereen to Vaes Dothrak and with sly eyes she looks upon Jhiqui, the dothraki falling from her mouth as easy as valyrian.

" _Word of mouth says that numerous khalasars are heading east._ "

Jhiqui leans over the map, her own fingers tracing a path across the Dothraki Sea. Her fingers tap in a quick rhythm before she speaks in a hush tone as if someone could be listening in,

" _The stars grow brighter Khaleesi and they point to the Mother of Mountains. When the sun sets, look east, you'll see the path._ "

She nods and a brilliant smile spreads across Jhiqui's face. As she looks back to the map considering her options, Jhiqui steps behind her and gathers her hair into one hand with the other brushing loose strands into order. Her shoulders relax as Jhiqui brushes her fingers across her scalp and through the strands as she separates the hair into sections to braid.

If the khalasars are making their way east then it seems to her that they are all travelling towards Vaes Dothrak. Hundreds upon thousands of warriors all gathering into one spot.

_To go forward, you must go back._

* * *

"You can't be serious."

The look of disbelief on Daario's face is enough to drag a breathy chuckle from her chest. Ser Barristan mirrors him, leaning forward against the table to rest his head in his hands as he mutters and she can only watch in amusement, a smirk curling her lips as his frustration finally breaks through his need to be respectful. Wide eyed, Daario turns to look at Ser Barristan.

"She's serious."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said, only a small chapter


End file.
